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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917237">bury me face down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis'>TheThirdTemptationOfParis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Abuse, F/F, Fight Club!AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Violence, but like in a serious way, i honestly don't know how to tag this, i just realized that jonelias could be inferred, this is my excuse to simp and make everyone buff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:02:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Blackwood discovers a branch of England's underground fighting scene and is pulled into the long ongoing rivalry between the Fears and the Avatars. One man in particular draws his attention, the Fear fighter Jonathan Sims, known as the Archivist. There's something off about his position on the team, and Martin is determined to find out what and why.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Agnes Montague/Jude Perry, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Relationship, Sasha James/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin had been lugging a plethora of shopping bags back from Tesco’s when he saw the poster. Someone in a dark grey hoodie had just finished pasting it to a crumbling brick wall, not caring if a corrections officer came around the corner. He had to squint to read it, seeing as his glasses were still propped on his head and his hands were full.</p><p>It was plain, a simple dark blue background with white text. <i>Come see the Fears and the Avatars. Hulme Hippodrome. 9 pm.</i> The Hulme Hippodrome? That theatre had been permanently closed since the late eighties. Whoever these Fears and Avatars were, they certainly weren’t using the theatre legally. Not that Martin really particularly cared about the workings of London’s underground scene. He shook his head, shifted his weight with the shopping, and continued on to his flat. </p><p>He groaned as he walked into the lobby, seeing once again that the elevator was out of commission. Delia, the older woman who normally worked behind the service desk when Martin returned from work, gave him a sympathetic smile. He nodded in response, crossing the floor to push open the stairway door with his shoulder. He threw his head back and took a breath before starting the climb to his sixth floor flat. </p><p>Martin’s arms were jelly by the time he reached apartment 617. He sat one set of groceries down to pull out his keys and set his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He pushed his way in, moving as fast as he could to the kitchen counter. Before he made it, one of the bags chose to break, cans of soup and vegetables rolling under the island. </p><p>“Oh for Chissakes,” Martin groaned, dropping the rest of the bags before dropping to his knees to pick up the escaping cans. When he stood back up, he nearly jumped out of his skin, “Jesus, mum, what are you doing out of bed?” He rounded the island and guided her into the living room, sitting her in her armchair and covering her with an afghan.</p><p>“Well if you wouldn’t be making such a bloody racket, I wouldn’t have had to get out of bed. What on earth are you doing, you ridiculous boy?” Mum asked, her voice creaking as it climbed up her throat.</p><p>“It was an accident, mum. One of the shopping bags broke and some cans went rolling. Just an accident.”</p><p>“Well you should have had them double bag. You know how fragile those plastic bags are.”</p><p>“Mum, just leave it, okay? I have to make you dinner and fill out some paperwork. And then I’m going out for a bit tonight.” Martin shocked himself as he said it, just as much as he did his mother.</p><p>“Out?” she laughed, “Out where?”</p><p>“Manchester. Some colleagues set up some sort of team building exercise and apparently it’s mandatory that I be there since I missed the last few.” It was almost easy for the lie to slip from his mouth. He had never been a very good liar, especially when it came to his mother, but by now he was just exhausted and itching to see what, or rather who, the Fears and Avatars were.</p><p>His mother huffed, “If you’re going out that far, you might as well just stay there and have Mariah check on me in the morning.”</p><p>It took every ounce of Martin’s will not to slam the cabinet door. This was a fight they had often. Too often, considering how infrequent Martin’s outings were. Martin liked Mariah, their next door neighbor. She was a nursing student at King’s College, perfectly adept at taking care of Martin’s mother. So adept, in fact, that he had considered using his dismal salary to hire her just so he could have a bit of a social life. But he never did. He was the only son, no brothers or sisters to share his weight with, and it was his responsibility to take care of his mother.</p><p>With a soft click, he closed the cabinet, “Mother, honestly. You know Mariah is busy with classes. I’ll be back before you wake up. It’s really no big deal.”</p><p>Mother didn’t answer, just pulled the afghan tighter around her legs, tucking the corners into the cushion. Even that slight adjustment spoke volumes to Martin, and he curled his fists up tight. He shook them out a few seconds later and got to work on warming up some french onion soup for the two of them. As it boiled, he cubed some of the baguette he bought and plopped them into the pot, watching as they soaked up the broth.</p><p>“Gruyere, parmesan, or both, mum?” he asked over his shoulder as he spooned the soup into the crock he had bought specially for nights like this. </p><p>“Both,” his mother grunted, shifting restlessly in her chair.</p><p>“Don’t even think of standing. I just have to put these in the oven and then I’ll be over.”</p><p>“I’m not an invalid, Martin Blackwood. I can very well walk to the dining room table,” she shot back, throwing the afghan over the arm of her chair.</p><p>“Mum, please, you almost fell earlier this week. I’m not about to be charged with neglect if you do fall. Wait just one minute.” He finished topping the soups and placed them in the oven, closing the door with his foot before rounding the island and getting to mum’s chair just as she began to stand up. As Martin reached out to grasp her arms, she pulled one back and slapped him across the face.</p><p>It stunned him for a moment but he recovered quickly. Her slaps didn’t hold the same sting as they used to when he was younger, but they still had the power to stun him. He was almost in his thirties, but she still had the power to make him feel like he was eight years old again.</p><p>He maneuvered the two of them across the room to the dining table, seating her at the head of the table. He minutely rubbed his cheek as he said, “I’m going to go over and ask Mariah to check on you tonight while I’m gone. I’ll be back.”</p><p>Once Martin was out the door, he fully rubbed his cheek, soothing his stinging skin. He rapped his knuckles lightly against Mariah’s door, not really wanting to disturb her. He heard the soft padding of her socked feet across the floor, followed by the sound of the deadbolt unlocking.</p><p>Mariah grinned up at him, coiled hair piled on top of her head in a loose bun, “Martin, I was just about to come over. Is everything alright?”</p><p>“No different than it is on a normal night. She’s being ornery, as usual.”</p><p>Mariah giggled, “Nothing else to be expected out of mother. Did you need something?”</p><p>“Just wondering if you can check on her later tonight after I put her to bed. I’m going out for a bit tonight. Say, eleven? Eleven-thirty?”</p><p>“Not a problem. I’m finishing up some clinical reports so I’ll still be awake.”</p><p>“You’re the best,” Martin said, smiling, “I owe you a thousand times over.”</p><p>“Bring me some of that soup and we’ll call it even,” she said, winking, crossing one leg over the other.</p><p>“Give me a few minutes to get mother settled and pop yours in the oven, then I’ll be back. I seriously owe you, Mariah. You’re a lifesaver.” He pulled her in for a quick hug before going to his own flat. He could see her fondly shaking her head as she shut her door.</p><p>Martin opened the oven and pulled out the tray their crocks were on using a potholder. He pulled a regular bowl from the cabinet and prepared another serving for Mariah before carrying his and mum’s over to the table.</p><p>“Is she so helpless that you have to feed her too?” she grumbled before tucking into her soup with a shaking hand.</p><p>“She helps us out a lot, the least I can do is give her some leftover soup.” He shook his head and tucked into his own soup. He ate quickly, simultaneously working on his short stack of papers, checking his watch every few minutes. If he hurried, he could make it to Manchester before this event, whatever it was, even started. </p><p>When he was finished he took his crock over to the sink and ran some water in it to let it soak before turning to turn the oven off and retrieve Mariah’s bowl. He cradled it in a potholder as he walked towards the door, careful not to burn his hand.</p><p>“When I get back, mum, nighttime meds and then bedtime, alright? Can I let Mariah know that you’ll call her if you need anything before you fall asleep?” </p><p>“Fine,” she grunted, lifting another quivering spoonful to her lips.</p><p>Martin nodded, leaving the flat once more. He used the same polite knocking as last time, waiting patiently for the door to open.</p><p>Mariah had the same easy smile on her face as the door swung open, “Mm, smells delicious, Martin, thank you,” she said, taking it from his hand</p><p>“Of course. If there’s anything else I can ever do for you, just let me know. Also, I told mum she could call you if she needed anything before she fell asleep. I hope that’s alright.”</p><p>“I don’t know, Mr. Blackwood. You might owe me again.”</p><p>“Whatever you ask, it’s yours.”</p><p>“Have fun tonight,” she said, lightly tapping his chest, that easy smile still playing across her lips, “Promise me. Wherever you’re going, have fun. No calling me every half hour to check on mother.”</p><p>Martin laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “I promise to try. That’s the best I can do for now.”</p><p>“Fine by me. Now go get her settled and get on your way. I’ll want to hear all about wherever it is you’re going later.”</p><p>“Thanks, Mariah. Have a good night.”</p><p>“With this soup and my paperwork? Absolutely.” She winked at him again and closed the door. Martin smiled behind the door, knowing that if he were a different man, she would certainly be his type.</p><p>By the time he returned to his flat, mother had finished her soup and was sitting at the table with her arms crossed, “If I didn’t know any better, Martin, I’d say you were in love with that girl.”</p><p>Martin rolled his eyes, moving to the kitchen to get a glass of water and tip mother’s evening pills into his hand. He took them over to her and cleared away her dish. He left them to soak until morning, hoping the soapy water would break down the burnt cheese so he didn’t have to scrub his hands raw.</p><p>When he turned, he noticed a single white pill on the table, “All of them, mum. I don’t want to have this same argument every night.”</p><p>“And I don’t like being induced to sleep at the late hour of eight-thirty, Martin,” she retorted, voice sharper than it was when he got home.</p><p>“Mum, please just take it. I’ve got to get going.”</p><p>She stared at him, defiant as always. His arms twinged in memory of days long gone. When he was younger, he knew what that look would get him. The single ashtray that still sat on the living room coffee table a constant reminder of how they got here.</p><p>“Mum, please,” he said again, almost in defeat.</p><p>She sighed and gave in, bringing the pill to her lips and swallowing it.</p><p>“Thank you,” Martin sighed, crossing the room to lift her up and take her back to bed. Once she was settled, he clipped the heart monitor onto her finger.</p><p>“Leave it on. Mariah will check, you know she will. We need to make sure your rate doesn’t drop too much while you sleep.”</p><p>She waved her hand at him and pulled the blankets up to her chin.</p><p>Martin took that as his cue to leave. He pulled a light jacket on, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door. As he broke out into the brightness of the lobby again, waving to Delia, he pulled out his phone to send a message to Mariah.</p><p>
  <i>Make sure her monitor stays on, please. We have an appointment for her heart next week.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Get on your way, Martin. HAVE FUN!</i>
</p><p>He laughed as he made his way toward the train station, hoping he could keep his promise to Mariah.</p><p>*</p><p>The Hulme Hippodrome was in almost complete disrepair from what Martin could see when he walked up to it. There was graffiti covering the lower half of the building, the bricks colorless and crumbling. It looked nothing like it did back in its hay day and Martin would be hesitant to go in if he didn’t see a small group open the front doors and walk right in. He followed, catching the door with his foot before it could close completely. Inside, though the building itself was in disarray, was a bustling lobby. Different age demographics milled around, melding seamlessly into one another. It almost shocked Martin as he let the crowd usher him into the bowels of the theatre. </p><p>The stairs that once led into the orchestra had long ago been removed, so he stayed on the platform as others jumped down. He took in the dismantled room, plush red velvet orchestra seats thrown in heaps off to the sides of the room, the stage’s green and gold curtain barely holding on the rod. On stage and in the empty orchestra there were two groups of six people, split into pairs, sparring. It hit Martin like a ton of bricks. A fight club. He’d walked straight into an underground fight club. Instead of turning around and abandoning the evening, he hopped off the platform and inched closer to the taped ring.</p><p>The fighters, from which team he didn’t know, sparred in a pair of women, a pair of men, and another pair of a man and a woman. They all seemed to move in tandem with one another, one half of the team throwing the same combination of moves, the other half blocking and retaliating. The team on the stage, however, moved more frantically, but they seemed more like a team, laughter flowing from them out into the theatre’s high rafters. The makeup of the teams was almost identical, except for the fact that the third pair on stage was made up of two women.</p><p>As he looked on, he began to feel unsettled, a presence seemingly floating over his shoulder. Martin turned, looking up to the fully gutted lighting loft. In the shadows, he could barely make out two figures seated in metal chairs, conferring with one another. One was looking straight out at the teams while the other leaned into their ear. He could see subtle nods from both, as well as something fanned out above one’s head. He cocked an eyebrow and was interrupted from his musings by someone tapping on his arm.</p><p>“You must be new,” she said when Martin turned. Her smile was easy, half of her jet black hair shaved close to her head, a spider web pattern buzzed into the close crop. She extended her hand, still smiling, “Annabelle Cane. And you are?”</p><p>“Uh, Martin. Hi,” he stammered, shaking her hand.</p><p>“You can always spot the newbies. One of the first things they look at is the loft.”</p><p>“Who are they?” Martin asked, looking back up to see one of the figures nod again and stand. As they walked away, a face came into the light and Martin was awestruck. The man couldn’t have been that much older than him, but his dark hair was streaked with white. His deep olive skin had several scars that stood out so starkly. Their eyes connected, then the man took a breath and turned away.</p><p>“Well that would be the Archivist,” Annabelle said, the smile evident in her voice, “Seems that he noticed you right away.”</p><p>“The Archivist?” Martin asked, turning around to look at her again.</p><p>“Real name Jonathan Sims. From what I can tell, he’s fighting tonight, so you’ll figure out what that means tonight. The other man up there is the Watcher. No one knows his real name, as far as I can tell.”</p><p>“So are they Fears or Avatars?”</p><p>“Fears,” Annabelle replied, “The Watcher sponsors the Fears and curates the fighters. They’re the ones on stage. He trains all of them, but the Archivist is the Watcher’s pet project. Always has been, ever since his first fight.”</p><p>“How long have you been around?” Martin asked, following her as she moved to sit on the ledge leading into the room. Martin felt weirdly at ease with Annabelle. He normally didn’t get along with strangers, but having her guide him around settled rather than unnerved him. </p><p>“Longer than you’d think just by looking at me. It’s something to do, you know. Keeps me out of trouble.” She winked at him, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a smirk.</p><p>“Hard to believe, seeing as there’s a bookie over there taking bets.” He jerked his thumb toward a kid in his twenties sitting on top of the precarious pile of theatre seats.</p><p>“I don’t bet often. Only when the Archivist fights. That’s the only sure fire way to make money around here. As good as the other fighters are, they aren’t reliable. No one’s undefeated except Jon.”</p><p>Martin couldn’t stop thinking about the man they call the Archivist. He looked more like an academic than a fighter. Despite how powerful his arms no doubt were, they looked more accustomed to holding books rather than throwing punches. </p><p>“Are you going to tell me why they call him the Archivist, or am I going to have to sit on the edge of my seat the whole night?”</p><p>“The latter. It’s part of the fun.” She smiled at him again and looked on as the fighters finished their warmups and a whiteboard was rolled onto the stage, detailing the fights and betting odds for the night.</p><p>
  <i>The Hunter vs The Werewolf  | 6-1</i><br/>
Firecracker vs Rogue  | 10-1<br/>
vs The Archivist  | 100-1
</p><p>The blank spot next to the Archivist’s name stirred the room. Whispers crescendoed into shouts and whoops for an Archivist fight, even if the opponent wasn’t stated. Martin watched with wide eyes as the entire crowd seemed to rally behind a single fighter.</p><p>“Does this happen every time he fights?” Martin asked Annabelle.</p><p>“Just about,” she replied, “He only fights every month or so. He’s the reason most of the crowd is here. His base odds are always a hundred to one, it goes up or down depending on who he fights. The majority of the time it goes up. He never loses.”</p><p>“How did he end up here?” Martin said, more to himself than Annabelle.</p><p>“No one really knows. I’ve heard rumors, but it’s not really my place to say.”</p><p>Martin stared at the whiteboard a little while longer, the blank spot next to Jon’s pseudonym burning into his retinas. He shook his head, looking back to Annabelle, “So, the other fighters?”</p><p>“Avatars followed by Fears. The Fears are always highly favored, whether they have good records or not. So we have Julia Montauk versus Daisy Tonner—”</p><p>Martin held up a hand, stopping Annabelle short, “Hang on, Montauk? As in <i>Robert</i> Montauk?”</p><p>Annabelle nodded, “His daughter. Robert used to fight for the Avatars before he went sideways. Julia was a cute kid, but she’s following right in her father’s footsteps.”</p><p>“Let’s hope she doesn’t go the whole way…” he mumbled.</p><p>“She’s mild mannered when she’s not fighting. Nothing to worry about,” Annabelle replied, continuing on, “Then it’s Jude Perry versus Melanie King, and whoever Jon gets put up against. Huh, ladies night, aside from Jon.”</p><p>“Does he fight whichever Avatar loses their fight?”</p><p>“Not always. You’ll see the full gimmick in a bit. Here comes the Watcher.”</p><p>The Watcher was more of a presence than a person. He stood on the stage, face covered in a sheer black veil with only his mouth exposed, hands clasped in front of his navel, waiting for silence to fall over the room. Once it did, he lifted a hand in acknowledgement, a smile gracing his visible lips.</p><p>“Welcome!” he called, his hand lowering, “Tonight begins the tournament for the Watcher’s crown.”</p><p>His head tilted to the side and then back, drawing attention to the crown resting upon it. Now that Martin could see it in full view, he was able to place the vision of it over the memory of the Watcher in the loft. It was burnished copper, the spokes of it staggered at different lengths.</p><p>“Now you may be wondering what this tournament entails. Excellent question. For the next several weeks, my beloved Fears will be pitted against the Sailor’s Avatars. Each of my fighters will fight each of the Sailor’s.”</p><p>“The Sailor?” Martin asked, leaning toward Annabelle.</p><p>“Peter Lukas, the Avatars’ sponsor. He’s rarely around, but his family is old blood in the underground fighting circuit,” she replied.</p><p>“The catch!” the Watcher called again, voice raising over the rolling murmurs, “The Archivist will be fighting one of the Avatars every week, single handedly eliminating them from the tournament. This Avatar isn’t necessarily the winner or loser of the other fights of the night, and may be chosen at random. And once every Avatar has been eliminated, the Archivist shall fight his teammates until he is, hopefully, the last one standing.”</p><p>A thick hush fell over the room, so thick that even Annabelle was silent. Martin looked to her for clarification, but she just shrugged.</p><p>“And it wouldn’t be a Fear run tournament without one more twist. Should my Archivist wish to not fight his teammates, he can opt out and fight me instead.” </p><p>The Watcher titled his head up, looking to the loft, the entire crowd following his gaze. Martin hopped off the ledge to look on with them. The Archivist stood in shadow, his taped up hands clenched into fists at his sides. Martin looked over his shoulder at the Watcher, the sardonic smile on those barely visible lips sending shivers down his spine.</p><p>The crowd around him erupted into cheers around him, sending all of it toward Jon. His face was covered in shadow, his expression hidden, but Martin could tell by the tension in his shoulders that this wasn’t what he had been expecting for the upcoming round of fights.</p><p>“Now for the first fight,” the Watcher called, voice somehow able to rise above the noise, “Julia ‘The Hunter’ Montauk versus Daisy ‘The Werewolf’ Tonner!”</p><p>Annabelle looked at him from the ledge, leaning back on her hands, “Well this is new,” she said, her voice not conveying the shock on her face. “We knew he was up to something, but we didn’t know what. This is not what I had in mind.”</p><p>She patted the ledge beside her, nodding toward the ring. Martin hopped back up, watching as a blond woman with a slightly grown out buzz cut stepped up to face another woman with curly black hair cascading down her back, almost defying the ponytail it was held in. Martin saw Annabelle run a hand through her hair and practically lick her lips as she looked at the fighters, “God, I love when women.”</p><p>Martin laughed at her and then tried his best to mimic her position, “So, who’s who?”</p><p>“Black curly hair is Montauk, buzz cut is Tonner. I’d climb both of them like flagpoles.”</p><p>Martin laughed at her again as the Watcher stood between the fighters, “Now, you both know the rules. Fists only, this isn’t a kickboxing match. Montauk, I’m talking to you.” Julia shook her head with a smirk, raising her taped fists to Tonner. </p><p>As the Watcher raised a hand between the two women, Martin was struck with the dichotomy of the man. He has this threatening air around him, but all of the fighters seemed to be comfortable with him. When he hand dropped, Martin focused on the Watcher. He couldn’t see the expression in his eyes due to the veil, but there was a smile of appreciation and pride on his lips as he watched the Werewolf fight.</p><p>Martin zoned back into the fight just as Montauk threw a left hook, which was skillfully blocked by Tonner. The crowd cheered as Tonner ducked under another swing, successfully jabbing a fist right up under Julia’s ribs. Annabelle leaned forward and clapped enthusiastically, eyes glinting with amusement. </p><p>It didn’t take long to tell that Daisy had the upper hand. She brought both of her hands level with her face, running the tip of her tongue between artificially pointed teeth. Martin waited with baited breath for her to throw a punch, but she was waiting for Montauk. They danced around each other in the masking tape ring, both light footed, their steps barely making a sound as the room began to hush.</p><p>Montauk shook out her left shoulder, her dominant arm, making it seem like she was readying to throw a punch. Tonner saw through it though, expertly blocking Julia’s right fist with her left as it flew forward. In quick succession, Daisy brought her right fist up under Julia’s jaw, the crack of her teeth echoing off the ceiling. Before Julia could recover from the hit, Daisy’s left fist swung wide, all four of her knuckles colliding with the Hunter’s temple. </p><p>Julia Montauk fell to the floor with a heavy thud, barely conscious. She laid with her head on her hands for a moment, hair covering her face. The Werewolf’s posture loosened as Julia lifted her head up, spitting blood and a chip of a tooth from her mouth. She raised a hand to the Watcher before pounding it twice against the floor. Daisy relaxed her shoulders, arms falling to her sides, head rolling between her shoulders. She reached down to help Julia up, shaking her hand before turning to the Watcher.</p><p>He lifted her right hand above their heads, another proud smile on his face, “And the winner of your first fight of the night… Daisy ‘The Werewolf’ Tonner!”</p><p>The crowd roared, Daisy smiling wide, wolf’s teeth glinting in the light. Another one of the fighters pushed through the crowd, a Pakistani woman in an ill-fitting wife beater and black leggings. She was short in stature, barely five foot by Martin’s estimate. She stood on tiptoe as she reached for Daisy’s face, bringing her down for a fierce, quick kiss, raising Daisy’s other arm as high as she could. </p><p>Martin hummed, “Girlfriend?” he asked Annabelle.</p><p>“Wife,” she replied, “Basira Hussein. The Detective. She’s another one of the Fears. They entered the scene at different times, but they had been together for years before they got here. Basira used to come as a spectator but she signed up for a fight one night and kicked ass. They both never looked back after that.”</p><p>“Who’d she fight?”</p><p>“An older Avatar. Maxwell Rayner. Watching her five foot self hand a grown man his own ass? Amazing.”</p><p>Martin looked back at Basira, shaking his head and recoiling in amused shock. He laughed lightly, stretching out his arms before settling in for the next fight. The Watcher stood in the middle of the ring, hands once again clasped in front of him. He was scanning the room, watching a few bookies walk around and take last minute bets for the next fight. He stopped when he looked toward the ledge, shielded eyes locked on Martin.</p><p>Martin felt a jolt go up his spine under the Watcher’s gaze. He shivered as the Watcher’s head tilted, spokes of the crown on his head slicing through the suddenly frigid air. And as soon as it started, the unsettling feeling in Martin dissipated when the Watcher lifted his hand to introduce the next fighters.</p><p>“Fight two of the night is a rematch that most of our regulars have been waiting with baited breath for. Jude ‘Firecracker’ Perry versus Melanie ‘Rogue’ King!”</p><p>Both women stepped up to each other in the middle of the ring with mischievous glints in their eyes. Annabelle leaned forward, looking to Martin, “Let’s just say these two don’t like each other very much and aim to maim. This one should be fun. The Watcher hasn’t let Rogue fight Firecracker for months.”</p><p>The women were similar in stature, Melanie just the slightest bit shorter than Jude. Jude’s hair was another buzz cut, more closely cropped than Daisy’s, dyed a fire engine red, while Melanie’s was a simple chin length bob in her natural brown. She smirked at Jude while they shook hands, dancing from foot to foot while waiting for the Watcher to drop his hand. When he did, there was a dizzying array of fists. Jude’s right fist swung wide, Melanie just barely ducking under and delivering a glancing right cross to the left side of Jude’s ribs.</p><p>When they both regained their stances, they were grinning. Rogue struck first after that, left fist jabbing straight, Firecracker effectively blocking it. Rogue took that as an opening, making Firecracker spread wider just to block the onslaught. Once there was no way for Jude to move fast enough, Melanie jabbed forward, fist connecting hard with her opponent’s sternum. </p><p>Jude stumbled, air leaving her lungs in a rush. A taped hand came up to clutch her throat as she tried desperately to refill her lungs. In what Martin assumed to be the spirit of their rivalry, Melanie struck Jude’s stomach, chin, and forehead in quick succession, knocking her fully unconscious. </p><p>Rogue had to step over Firecracker’s still form to get to the Watcher, and when he raised her fist in the air, he said, “You certainly didn’t waste any time today.”</p><p>“You told me not to,” Melanie replied, still smiling.</p><p>One of Jude’s fellow fighters dropped to her knees beside her, shaking her shoulder gently, maneuvering her so that her head was in her lap. Martin kept his eyes on them as the Watcher sang Melanie’s praises, congratulating her on her comeback against Jude. She slowly began to wake up in the other woman’s lap after Melanie left the ring. Jude reached up, her hand seeming as if it was moving through molasses, to gently touch the other woman’s face. They both smiled, leaning heavily on each other as they lifted Jude’s exhausted body from the ring.</p><p>“Agnes Montague,” Annabelle said, “The Messiah. She was Arthur Nolan’s pet project when he still fought. They’re together, if you couldn’t tell.”</p><p>“Is everyone here on the spectrum?” Martin asked, genuinely curious.</p><p>“For the most part, as far as I can tell. There’s probably a story there. You might be able to figure it out if you get close to the Archivist like I know you’re planning on doing.”</p><p>“I— what? No, I-I-I never said I—” he stammered.</p><p>“You didn’t have to. Your eyes have subconsciously been drifting toward his name on the board. And he saw you earlier. I think you both made an impression on each other.”</p><p>Martin’s mouth continued to gape for a few moments, himself feeling a bit like a fish out of water. Annabelle cocked an eyebrow at him, a smirk playing across her lips. He shook his head, indignant, and looked away from her. When his eyes landed on the Archivist’s name on the whiteboard, he knew she was right. One of the other Fears stood beside the board, marker in hand, conferring with the Watcher. She nodded, coming to stand in front of the board, her broad shoulders blocking it from view.</p><p>She wrote something beside the Archivist’s name, and erased the first number of the betting odds before replacing it. Martin held his breath. Even though he was new to this scene, and was unsure whether he would fit right in, he felt an overwhelming stake in the safety of all of these fighters. </p><p>The Fear capped her marker, took a breath, paused as the entire gutted theatre watched her, and then moved to the side.</p><p>
  <i>Old Man vs The Archivist  |  150-1</i>
</p><p>“Jesus Christ…” Annabelle whispered, leaning back on her hands.</p><p>“Care to clue the newbie in?” Martin asks as more murmurs float around the room.</p><p>“Simon Fairchild. He’s somewhere in his forties, basically the Sailor’s right hand man and best friend from what I can tell whenever the Sailor decides to show up. To start the tournament off archiving Old Man? It’s sure as hell going to send a message to Lukas.”</p><p>“So what? This is all personal?”</p><p>“Looks like it. And I don’t like where this is going.”</p><p>The Watcher stood in the middle of the ring again and he didn’t have to say anything by way of introduction for the next fight. He simply raised one hand in the direction of the Avatars, Simon Fairchild stepping forward. The man was in excellent shape, body toned, looking so much stronger than the image of the Archivist that Martin had been holding on to. </p><p>There were polite claps for Old Man, but even Martin could tell that the entire room came to the same conclusion that Annabelle had. </p><p>The Watcher lifted his other hand toward his own side, a bit more dramatic, and Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, stepped into the ring. </p><p>The crowd roared. Jon raised his hand in polite acknowledgement, but his eyes were hard and calculating as he stared at his opponent. As they stepped closer to each other, an invisible hand tightened around Martin’s heart. There was no way this fight was fair.</p><p>Jon couldn’t have been taller than fiver seven, where SImon was upwards of six feet. They were both toned, but the Archivist’s muscle mass seemed dismal compared to Fairchild’s. And Jon was slated to win? Overwhelmingly? </p><p>“You seem worried, Martin,” Annabelle said.</p><p>“I am,” Martin replied, “How is he supposed to win? Look at them side by side!”</p><p>“You’ll change your tune soon. Now hush.”</p><p>The Watcher raised his hand, dropped it, and the fighting started.</p><p>At first, Martin couldn’t see how Annabelle could possibly be right. Jon seemed to be a timid fighter, only dodging and blocking, never really throwing punches of his own. And Simon was on offense right away. He knew like so many of the other people here what archiving meant, and he wasn’t about to be the first one to go out. </p><p>The more Martin watched, however, the more tact he saw in the punches that Jon did throw. The first two shots he threw were directly at the Old Man’s kidneys with such precision and force it took Martin’s breath away. </p><p>The Old Man retaliated with just as much force, hitting the Archivist anywhere he could reach. There was one particular punch thrown at Jon’s shoulder that made even Annabelle flinch. There was an obscene pop as Jon pulled his shoulder blade forward, shaking it out and returning to his stance. He stared Simon down just over his knuckles, brown eyes so black the irises looked almost like holes in the whites of his eyes. </p><p>The two men just stood there for a long moment, eyes locked onto each other, and then Jon moved. He sidestepped, before lunging forward and jabbing his fist directly behind Fairchild’s ear. Simon froze, the punch he was about to throw flailing wide as he lost control of his body. He dropped to the floor in a heap, much like Montauk did in the first fight, losing consciousness before he hit the ground. </p><p>The crowd was quiet for a long moment, watching Simon’s still body. When the man didn’t rise, the Watcher stepped forward, grasping his prized fighter’s hand and lifting it into the air. The crowd erupted, chanting for the Archivist. Despite all the congratulations, Jon just looked… tired. Disturbed. No real joy for his win showing on his face. </p><p>Martin didn’t listen to the Watcher’s speech about the rest of the tournament and the archiving of Simon ‘Old Man’ Fairchild. He just kept looking at the Archivist, watching as the disturbed look in his eyes turned to abject fear. That look stayed with him as the crowd began to thin and Annabelle asked him, “So, will I see you next week?”</p><p>Martin nodded despite himself, watching as those terrified eyes glanced over a shoulder at the bloodied ring. Martin would be back every subsequent week, he realized. There was something severely wrong going on here, and he was going to figure out what.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>He knew what came next. He knew what Elias was going to ask of him. He continued to pretend like he didn’t know where this was going, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes and through his sweat slicked hair. Willful ignorance, he thought. If he ignored it, the inevitable would go away. </i>
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    <p>Jon stood in front of the mirror in the dressing room turned personal locker room of the Hulme Hippodrome. His right hand ghosted over his previously dislocated shoulder, minutely checking for further damage, already knowing that it would be blooming in deep shades of violet in the coming days. Aside from the dislocation, which happened often enough that he was somewhat used to it, there didn’t seem to be any lasting harm done. </p><p>The door to the room opened, Elias Bouchard, the Watcher, appeared behind Jon in the mirror. He was sans his Watcher regalia, dressed down now in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. There was a smile on that ever familiar face, one of pride and reverence, “Well done tonight, Archivist. Hardly a moment wasted.”</p><p>Jon let the corner of his mouth tick up into a small smile, but kept his eyes on his own in the mirror. He knew what came next. He knew what Elias was going to ask of him. He continued to pretend like he didn’t know where this was going, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes and through his sweat slicked hair. Willful ignorance, he thought. If he ignored it, the inevitable would go away. </p><p>Elias rounded Jon’s body, propping himself up on the counter of the crumbling vanity. He crossed his arms, broad shoulders expanding, nearly bursting from the confines of his shirt. He swiveled his head, not too unlike a snake, forcing their eyes to connect. “Jonathan,” he said, voice firm, always commanding attention.</p><p>“Elias, no,” Jon replied, trying his best to find that same type of command for himself. Instead, it just came out small and broken, “I already told you. I don’t want to.”</p><p>Elias hummed, shaking his head, “This isn’t about wanting, dear Archivist. There are rules. You knew them when you took your position.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” Jon replied, indignant, “You conveniently left this part of the job out. And apparently there are no real rules anymore, only your sick fantasy of control.” His hand flew up to cover his mouth, knowing he’d crossed a line.</p><p>“Jon, that’s quite enough, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Yes, Elias.”</p><p>“Good. Now, gather your things, we have a job to do.” The smile on his face could almost be seen as sweet as he tilted his head, reaching out to run a hand through Jon’s hair. </p><p>Jon felt sick to his stomach as he nodded, the Watcher’s hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, thumb ghosting over the nape.</p><p>“Yes, Elias.”</p><p>*</p><p>Jon had met Elias when he was a disenfranchised university student considering every heinous thing possible to make money. He was in a bar after another failed attempt when Elias had approached him, all muscle and soft smiles, two pints of beer in hand.</p><p>“You seem to be on the outs,” he had said, passing Jon one of the pints, seeing that he didn’t already have one, “Like you could use a friend.”</p><p>Jon smiled slightly, turning the pint on the bar, watching condensation gather on the surface, “How could you tell?”</p><p>“You’re sitting at a bar without a beer. Kind of defeats the purpose of coming, don’t you think?”</p><p>Jon laughed and shook his head before taking a sip of the beer, “Jonathan Sims,” he said, just slightly turning his head to acknowledge the stranger fully.</p><p>“Elias Bouchard. I have an offer for you, if you’d like to take me up on it.”</p><p>The smile on Elias’s face was easy, trusting. So Jon took him up on his offer. He went with him to the Hippodrome during one of the first weeks of the Fears versus Avatars rivalry. He observed by Elias’s side, got pointers from him, the undisputed leader of the Fears. The next week, Jon fought. He fought and won. Then he fought again the next week. And again. And again. And again. He won each week. </p><p>Elias was proud of him, pleased with his progress and willingness to let go of the rage and strength he didn’t know he had. Jon grew closer to the team, watched as fighters came and went for an entire year, and then Elias got an idea.</p><p>He got the idea to make Jon the Archivist.</p><p>And every day since being promoted to Archivist, Jon had wanted to go back in time and shake his younger self, to tell him not to trust the man with the easy smile.</p><p>*</p><p>Jon sat in the passenger seat beside Elias, trying his best to drown out the sounds coming from the back of the car. They had a way to go yet, so Jon just folded his hands in his lap and looked out the windshield. </p><p>Elias looked over at him, that ever familiar easy smile on his lips. Jon only looked at him in the reflection of the windshield, always ever in reflections. It was too difficult, knowing what he knew about the man beside him, to look him in the eye anymore.</p><p>There was a particularly loud <i>thump</i> from the boot of the car, causing Jon to swallow hard and close his eyes. In his blindness, he felt Elias reach over and pat his knee reassuringly, the gesture having the opposite effect.</p><p>“You must be tired, Archivist,” he said, voice light and caring, “Get some rest, I’ll wake you when we get there.”</p><p>Jon took the advice despite himself, letting his eyes drift closed as the rhythm of thumps crescendoed from the boot of the car. </p><p>*</p><p>In his short slumber, Jon dreamt of a pair of eyes. Deep brown eyes. They were looking at him from over a crowd. Up. Up at him. The Hippodrome. That man, the one who spent the night by Annabelle’s side, being shown the ropes of the Hippodrome. Those eyes had found him within moments of entering the theatre, and there was something about them. Something familiar in their newness. Jon wanted to know the man behind those eyes.</p><p>Jon had continuously searched for those eyes that night, and found them embedded with fear right before his fight with Simon began. He remembered seeing the knowing there when he found those eyes after the fight. He could see that this man knew his exhaustion, even if he didn’t know the reason for it.</p><p>“Jon,” the man said, although the voice that came from him didn’t match the look of him. It sounded too much like… “Jon, wake up.”</p><p>Elias.</p><p>Jon opened his eyes, taking in the starry night sky ahead of him. Elias was already out of the car door, leaning down and in to shake his shoulder.</p><p>Bleary eyed, Jon opened his door and climbed out, circling to the back of the car, waiting for further instructions. </p><p>“Alkrington Nature Reserve,” Elias said, popping the boot of the car, “Far enough away from our last sight. Plus, there’s running water here. We don’t really have the added benefit of predator wildlife, but we’ll make due.”</p><p>Jon nodded, looking down into the boot of the car. Simon Fairchild’s uncovered eyes looked up at him and Elias from the rough carpet covering. His hands were bound and there was a gag in his mouth. His nostrils flared as he fully took in the probable ending of this situation.</p><p>“Haul him out,” Elias said, “We don’t have much time, so let’s make this quick.”</p><p>Jon did as he was told, forcing Simon to kneel on the bank of what he assumed was the River Irk, considering their location. The man kneeling before him didn’t seem to have much fear in his eyes, as if he expected this outcome from the moment their fight was announced that evening. And Jon rather supposed that was the truth. Fairchild was one of Lukas’s oldest fighters, his right hand man in a way. There was a possibility he knew, and kept secret, what really happened after one was archived.</p><p>Elias came up beside him, holding out a British Army issued Browning to him. The gun was no doubt nicked from Peter’s gun safe, “Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.</p><p>Jon shook his head, “I came with you. That should be enough.”</p><p>“Very well,” Elias shrugged, resting the barrel of the gun under Simon’s chin.</p><p>Every time it was different. The shot, the location, the bindings, everything, but it always left Jon with that same sick feeling. Always left him wanting to turn back time and tell his twenty-one year old self to run far, and run fast.</p><p>“Get back in the car,” Elias said, as he tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, “We have another week of training ahead.”</p><p>“Yes, Elias.”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>"Martin, that man is missing. They think he’s dead.”</i>
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    <p>Martin laid languidly on the couch in the living room of Mariah’s apartment, a book propped on his chest, on leg crossed over his knee. Mother was asleep next door, set to wake up around noon, giving Martin some free time on his day off. Mariah sat across from him on the floor in front of the coffee table, almost buried up to her neck in paperwork and assignments.</p><p>She looked up at him, coiled hair still slightly dripping onto her shoulders, “So,” she said, laying her pen down and crossing her hands in front of her, “are you going to tell me about your little adventure the other night, or are we going to sit here in silence pretending we’re actually doing things?”</p><p>Martin laughed, “Speak for yourself, I’m quite enjoying my book.” He tugged lightly on a page corner in emphasis.</p><p>“Martin K. Blackwood, you’re a terrible liar. You haven’t turned a page in ten minutes. So start talking. Where did you go, who did you meet?”</p><p>“If I tell you, you have to promise not to call the police,” Martin said, sitting up on the couch. </p><p>Mariah’s eyes lit up like thousand watt bulbs. She bounced a little and placed her chin on her folded hands, “Now I’m really intrigued. Martin Blackwood? Getting up to something illegal? The scandal!”</p><p>“Now hang on, I didn’t do anything illegal, just… the place I was was pretty illegal.”</p><p>“Spit it out, Blackwood. Don’t leave a girl hanging.”</p><p>Martin took a deep breath and scratched the back of his head, “I kinda stumbled upon an underground fight club.”</p><p>The gasp that left Mariah’s mouth was visceral, “Martin that’s so awesome! And so illegal. Are you going back? Tell me about it. Can I come?”</p><p>“No, Mariah, you cannot come along. You’re too busy. And an underground fight club is no place for someone like you. I’m afraid you would get caught and lose your scholarships. Or worse.”</p><p>She harrumphed and crossed her arms, “You’re no fun. You’re like the older brother I never had. But you didn’t say you wouldn’t go back. How bad would that look for you, Mr. I’m-Trying-To-Get-My-Doctorate?”</p><p>Martin didn’t have a comeback for that. And he didn’t want to fully explain that his research fellowship wasn’t necessarily doctorate grade, or the reason why he was going back to the Hippodrome. </p><p>Mariah looked at him over the coffee table, “You really want to tell me why you’re going back.” She repeated the sentence a few times, motioning toward him with her hands as if they had the power to draw out all of his secrets. </p><p>“Okay, okay, bruja, I’ll tell you.”</p><p>“Thank you for not calling me a brujo this time. Now, spill.”</p><p>“There’s this fighter, they call him the Archivist, and there’s something not quite right about his position on the team he’s a part of.”</p><p>“We’ll come back to the fact that this fighter is a man in a moment,” Mariah said, holding up a finger, “What’s so off about his position?”</p><p>“He archives fighters,” he said, putting air quotes around the word archives, “I’m not even sure what that means, but I’m sure it’s nothing. And he… he’s such an amazing fighter, but he looks so reluctant when he does. There’s just something about him.”</p><p>An image flashed in Martin’s eyes of the way Jon had looked over his shoulder at the blood stained ring. Those dark brown eyes so wide and full of fear. He didn’t think he could ever bleed that image out.</p><p>Mariah snapped her fingers in front of Martin’s face, “Hello… earth to Blackwood, paging Martin Blackwood.”</p><p>Martin zoned back in, focusing on Mariah’s face, back in its resting place on her hands. She tilted it to the said, pillowing it on her arm before asking, “So if he’s so reluctant, why is he still there?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Martin said, drumming his fingers on his book, “That’s what I intend to find out.”</p><p>“And him being, I assume, an attractive man has how much to do with this?”</p><p>Martin huffed out a laugh as an image of the Archivist looking at him from the gutted lighting loft passed behind his eyes. He knew, subconsciously, that his mind was romanticizing it a bit, with the almost glimmer bouncing off of his premature gray hairs, and his arms filling out his shirt more than they had.</p><p>“Blackwood, focus!” Mariah said, snapping in front of his nose again, “So he’s hot then?”</p><p>“Alright, yes, he’s hot. But that doesn’t really have anything to do with it. It’s a puzzle I want to solve.”</p><p>“More like a damsel in distress you want to save.”</p><p>“But that’s just it, I don’t know if there’s anything to save him from.”</p><p>An image of the Watcher flashed behind his eyes, menacing veil and wicked smile. Suddenly, he felt that there was something to save Jon from.</p><p>“Maybe there is,” he amended, “The team owner or sponsor, whatever you want to call him. He’s odd. Suspicious.”</p><p>“In what way?”</p><p>“He has this get up. A black veil and a burnished bronze crown, which I think he’s trying to pass off to J— the Archivist.”</p><p>“Wait hang on, you know his name?” Mariah said, perking up, “Did you talk to him and just not tell me?”</p><p>“No, I didn’t talk to him. I wish I had, but you know I don’t have that much courage. There was a regular who showed me the ropes. And they seem to announce everyone’s legal name except the Watcher’s. He’s the sponsor.”</p><p>“So why is him passing off a crown suspicious?”</p><p>Martin put his head in his hand as he thought back to the Watcher’s speech, “It’s this tournament. Jon has to fight all of the other team’s fighters, and then his own teammates if he chooses to. He fought a man last week who was in his forties. Simon Fairchild.”</p><p>Mariah scrunched up her nose in thought, “Why does that name sound familiar?”</p><p>She flipped through her paperwork, scrutinizing the names of her patients.</p><p>Martin watched on as she continued her flipping, “He was pretty messed up. It would make sense that he might’ve had to go to hospital.”</p><p>Mariah sat up straight, looking as if a light bulb had gone off, “Oh my god…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do you remember my old roommate, the forensic pathologist?”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“She consulting with NSY. Martin, that man is missing. They think he’s dead.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>If they got caught, Elias had every intention of taking Jon down with him. He was guilty by association, that blood had transferred from hand to hand the moment he shook Elias’ in agreement.<br/>He needed to find a way out.</i>
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    <p>Jon rubbed his hands over his eyes, tape rolling over his knuckles loosely. He crossed his hands in a T, looking across the ring at Tim. The other man dropped his hands and nodded, running his hands through his hair. Sasha came over and began talking to Tim, giving him pointers on his form, like always, Tim’s eyes just going soft as he looked at her. </p><p>Jon shook his head fondly and sat on the bench outside the ring, unraveling his boxing tape. He looked to Basira across the way, clapping to get her attention. She tossed him a new roll of tape before getting up to spar with Daisy on the side. It was day four of a training week, all of them exhausted and going through the motions. Elias sat above them in the lighting loft, leaning back in the old rusted metal chair, eyes focused on Jon.</p><p>“Jonathan, a little bit of haste, if you would,” he called, voice echoing across the theatre, “You have fights to win, archiving to be done.” .</p><p>Jon nodded, tightening his ponytail with his freshly taped knuckles. He stepped back into the ring across from Tim, squaring up his fists, trying to keep himself light on his feet. He took a passive approach, letting Tim make the first move. The two of them had joined the team around the same time, and they got along well, knowing each other’s fighting style better than their own some days. So when Tim’s right thumb twitched, Jon smirked and met his fist in midair, their knuckles lining up almost perfectly. </p><p>He let himself relax, playing off Tim’s style, the two of them never hitting each other too hard. He actually let himself laugh as he swept Tim’s foot out from under him when he went to lunge forward. Tim crashed to the ground, grunting as his shoulder collided with the floor. Jon was over him in a second, neckline of his white t-shirt in his fist to keep him from hitting the floor a second time on the ricochet.</p><p>“You’ve gone soft on me, Detonator. What the hell was all that?” Jon said, reaching down with his other hand to help Tim up. </p><p>The other man laughed, rubbing his shoulder and adjusting it, “I wanted to take it easy on you. Melanie looks like she wants to beat the shit out of you next. Didn’t want to rough you too much before the Toothpick starts stabbing you with her minuscule fists.”</p><p>Melanie’s voice carried from where she was laying on the edge of the stage, “Oi, you better watch yourself, Stoker, or I’ll forgo my plans and kick your arse instead.”</p><p>“Sure you would, Rogue. Sure you would.”</p><p>Melanie shot up, a look of determination filling her eyes. She launched off the edge of the stage and sprinted across the theatre towards Tim. Jon stepped back just in time, watching her whole body collide with Tim’s abs. He caught her, her head under his arm, and then lifted her up over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. She may not have looked like much, but Melanie’s body was almost pure muscle, a lot of strength in a small compact frame. A frame which was now flailing in Tim’s grip.</p><p>He smiled, arm thrown over her middle, her back nearly bent in half over Tim’s shoulder. He took a lap around the ring, Melanie laughing and trying to maneuver her way out of the trap.</p><p>“Timothy Stoker, put me <i>down</i>!” she yelled, banging her fists on his chest.</p><p>“Alright!” Elias called, everyone turning to look at him, “That’s enough, all of you. We have a tournament to win, so if you please.”</p><p>Tim cleared his throat and let go of Melanie, assisting her as she dropped down his back. “Sorry, boss,” he said, “got a little carried away.”</p><p>“Yes, you did. And I would appreciate it if you would focus, because I’m slating you to be one of the first fights this weekend, so I need you to be prepared. Spar with Gerard if you would, and leave Melanie to her exercises with Jon.”</p><p>“Yes, boss,” Tim said, nodding towards Gerard. The two of them took up residence on the stage as Jon and Melanie took the ring.</p><p>“Did you take the stick out of your arse this morning? You’re actually letting us have fun for once?” Melanie said, stretching her arms over he head. Her hair was pulled up in something that barely qualified as a ponytail. Jon let himself laugh lightly as it flopped slightly then stuck straight out as Melanie cracked her neck.</p><p>She rolled her eyes at him as she put up her hands, black tape standing out against her skin. As he did with Tim, he let her take the lead. He remembered Elias saying that he wanted to focus on refining her style, which Jon originally disagreed with. Melanie was an element of surprise, none of the Avatars ever being able to nail down her style effectively. Not even Jude, who she fought most often. </p><p>Jon ended up losing that argument with Elias, just as he always did. He was to refine Melanie’s style, and there would be no other word about it. So he pointed out her first flaw. Her balance was unstable as she lunged forward, allowing Jon to merely retaliate to her attack and knock off balance. </p><p>She spun slightly with the force of his blow to her shoulder, dropping to her knees before she could collapse to the floor. “Okay, that wasn’t fair,” she said, looking up at him from the floor.</p><p>“Yes it was,” Jon said, reaching down to help her up, “When you lunge forward, you don’t plant your lead foot hard enough, which offsets your balance, allowing your opponent to knock you over. You’re lucky Jude is always so focused on herself that she never caught on.”</p><p>“I’m still coming off the high of beating her this time. Don’t ruin it, Sims.” </p><p>“Not trying to, just pointing out the obvious. You have a solid core. Use it. And plant your feet, for the love of god. Again.”</p><p>They ran through a few sequences, every one of them having some sort of lunge in them. Each time Melanie’s balance got better, her center of gravity keeping her solid. Jon looked up to Elias and saw his small nod of approval before he glanced to to check his watch. Jon did the same, seeing that it was nearly half ten at night.</p><p>“Call it a night?” Jon called up to him, hoping for him to say yes.</p><p>Elias nodded again and stood up, turning to descend from the lighting loft. When he entered the bowels of the theatre from the tech entrance, everyone had gathered around, awaiting instructions. </p><p>“Everyone go home, get some rest, drink water, ice if you need to. You know the drill. We’re going to take the day off tomorrow because everyone has been doing good work.” His eyes scanned the team for a moment, “Except for you, Timothy. With your roughhousing and carrying on.” His voiced had changed, no longer the Watcher or the coach, but just Elias, who you sometimes mistakenly can call a friend.</p><p>Tim laughed, “Sorry, boss. I’ll keep it to a minimum.”</p><p>“Good. Now I’ll see you all back here on Thursday. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”</p><p>There was a chorus of agreements as the team dispersed to collect their belongings, Jon staying by Elias’ side. He looked over to Elias, noticing the hard edge in his eyes. Jon knew then that it was going to be a hard ride home.</p><p>*</p><p>It took until they were on the M40 for Jon to finally ask. Elias gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning stark white, “They know he’s missing. NSY is investigating it. They know he’s missing and if I could hazard a guess, they’re also on their way to believing he’s dead.”</p><p>Jon swallowed harshly, turning to look out the windshield, not prepared to see the anger on Elias’ face. A million questions ran through Jon’s mind. <i>What do we do now? What about the rest of the tournament? What happens if we get caught?</i> None of them made their way out of his mouth. He sat in silence, just waiting for Elias to continue. Others they had archived had been found before, but none of them could be traced back to them. The only one that could be was Simon Fairchild.</p><p>Elias slammed a hand against the steering wheel as he parked in front of the Bouchard mansion. He let a growl climb out of his throat as he threw his head back against the headrest, “We’ve made it this far, I will <i>not</i> let this stop us.”</p><p>Jon didn’t correct him. He didn’t tell him that the only reason he was here, still acting as the Archivist, was because he had nowhere else to go. Elias knew that full well, and took advantage of it. </p><p>“I should’ve been more careful, but Fairchild was getting too close to figuring it out. One more disappearance on our part and he would’ve known. He would have told Peter and then you and I would be in prison.”</p><p>Jon still kept silent. He had never pulled a trigger, sliced an artery, or bashed in a skull. There had never been any blood on his hands from his archiving, but this moment told him all he needed to know. If they got caught, Elias had every intention of taking Jon down with him. He was guilty by association, that blood had transferred from hand to hand the moment he shook Elias’ in agreement.</p><p>He needed to find a way out.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“It’s not just you that’s intrigued. I think the Archivist has his eye on you as well.”</i>
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          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin sat next to his mother at another of what must have been a thousand doctor’s appointments by now. The terminology floated in one ear and out the other, barely registering for him at the moment. It was a Friday. He had had the day off for these appointments for mother, but his mind kept wandering. He was going back to the Hippodrome tonight. He was going to talk to the Archivist, even if it killed him. And it very well might, given Annabelle’s penchant for teasing. </p><p>He zoned back in for a moment to hear the doctor start speaking to him personally, rather than just spewing jargon into empty air. “Martin, I know you work full time as a graduate researcher, and it is completely understandable if you can’t handle the hand you’ve been dealt.”</p><p><i>Oh no</i>, he thought, <i>please don’t say it.</i></p><p>He felt the waves of hostility start rolling off of his mother. He could already feel the sting of silence. Of hands.</p><p>“It’s my personal and professional opinion that you both begin looking into possibly placing your mother in a nursing home. There are plenty of fantastic options out there, and I’m more than willing to help.”</p><p>“No,” Mother said, her voice so deadpan and stern that Martin had to restrain himself from flinching. </p><p>“Mrs. Blackwood, with your condition, I would advise that you take it into consideration. With the way you’ve been deteriorating—”</p><p>“I said no. My son may not be the most capable, but I will not rot in a nursing home.”</p><p>“Mum,” Martin started, “It’s an option. We’ll think about it.”</p><p>“No, we won’t,” she said, hoisting herself up on shaking legs, maneuvering herself out of the office and into the waiting room. Martin watched her go before throwing his head back in defeat as the door closed.</p><p>“I’ll think about it,” he told the doctor, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. It’s been difficult.”</p><p>“I understand completely, Martin. You’ve been taking care of her since you were seventeen. You took it in stride at first, but no family member can be expected to do this forever.” He handed some pamphlets across the desk, all of them displaying bright and cheery nurses’ faces, immaculate gardens, the whole. He put them away in his satchel. With a smile and a nod, he stood up and left, the world seeming heavier than it did fifteen minutes ago.</p><p>Mother was still fuming when he reached her in the waiting room, her face had gone red in her anger. Martin silently hoped that she hadn’t taken it out on the reception staff, but the smile on the women behind the counter told him that she had just stewed in silence. He smiled back and walked behind his ailing mother to hail a cab. </p><p>When one finally pulled up in front of the hospital, willing to take on an older woman with a walker, the close quarters only made Martin’s anxiety spike higher. He folded his hands in his lap, waiting for her to start. She never gave a thought to the person driving the cab, so when one of those old decaying hands reached across the seat to smack across the face, he expected it. </p><p>“Insolent boy, how dare you? You would put me in a home? Let me rot and suffer? You would do that to me?” She turned to face him, her chignon bun pulling her features taut as it always had. </p><p>“Mum, I said it was an option. I didn’t say I was dropping you off tomorrow.” He knew it was useless defending himself. </p><p>“You might as well, Martin. You’ve hated doing this for me since I got sick, just like your father did. You’re more like him than you think.”</p><p>“Mum, please, can we not do this in the back of a cab?”</p><p>She crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face out the window, “Maybe if you would’ve learned to drive, we wouldn’t have to ride in the back of cabs.”</p><p>Martin took a deep breath to steady his anger, fists balling up on his knees, “Mother, I couldn’t learn how to drive because I was taking care of you.”</p><p>The moment it left his mouth, no matter how calm he’d said it, he knew he shouldn’t have. The slow turn of his mother’s head was reminiscent of something out of a horror movie, he swore he could almost hear her neck creak. He did his best not to shrink away when she planted her eyes on him, but he braced himself all the same. </p><p>“I never asked you to take care of me. I never asked for any of this.”</p><p>Martin didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive, just waited to see if what she had just said would dawn on her. It didn’t . So after a silent elevator ride up to their floor, once the door was locked behind them, Martin let it out.</p><p>“Do you realize what you said? You never asked me to take care of you, but I did. I’m your son. Your only son. I took care of you, I worked, I got a degree, all of it so I could take care of you. I was seventeen when you got sick and dad left. What else was I to do? Tell me. What else could I have done?”</p><p>His mother didn’t say anything, just shuffled her way across the floor, walker in front of her. Her head was still held high, not a hair out of place in that ballerina’s bun. Martin’s hands shook as he balled them into fists again. </p><p>“You don’t want me to put you in a home, but you also don’t want me taking care of you, so tell me, Mother. What do you want?”</p><p>She turned back to face him again, eyes boring holes into his skin, “I want you to stop acting like him!” she shouted, “Everything he did was out of pity until he couldn’t take it anymore, and you’re the spitting image of him! You’re going to do the same. You want to forget me just like he did.”</p><p>The comparisons to his father crawled under Martin’s skin, latching onto his very nerves. He shook, full body trembles starting from his feet, his hands. In that moment, he couldn’t hold the words behind his teeth anymore. He had spent a decade taking care of this ungrateful women. Feeding her, nursing her back to what most doctors considered health every time she got bad. He risked losing his education, his job, all to be compared to the man who left them with nothing.</p><p>“Maybe I do want to forget you, Mum. I want to forget all the shit you’ve put me through. The scars on my arm? The bruises? All of the manipulation and the gas lighting? I’d love to forget all of it, but it doesn’t leave me as easily as it does you. Mother, I am almost thirty years old, and you still punish me like I’m five! You think I really want to be here anymore? I feel obligated, but that doesn’t mean I really want to be here.”</p><p>“Then leave! I don’t need you to force feed me pills, Martin Blackwood. Get out.”</p><p>So Martin did. He turned around, picked up his keys, and fled. He barely breathed the entire way to the train station, and once he was on the next train to Manchester, he let it out. He leaned back in his seat, deflated and exhausted, but he pulled his phone out. He sent a text to Mariah.</p><p><i>I’m pissed at her, but please check on her for me. I’m on my way to Manchester.</i> </p><p>It didn’t take long for her response to come through. <i>I heard most of it. Don’t get into any trouble.</i></p><p>Martin breathed another sigh of relief and closed his eyes, breathing easier than he had in years. </p><p>* </p><p>He was early getting to the Hippodrome. There were a few people milling out front, one of them with a tell-tale spider web shaved into their hair. Martin walked up to Annabelle, hands in his coat pockets, nonchalant as he stood beside her.</p><p>“Ah, welcome back, newbie. How was your week at the nine to five?” She said, elbowing him in the side with a surprising sharp elbow.</p><p>“Mind numbing,” he said, letting his head lull back before snapping it back up, “Hang on, how’d you know I work a nine to five?”</p><p>Annabelle laughed, “You just seem the type. Anyway thank you for inquiring about my week of deviancy. As you can see, I haven’t been arrested quite yet.”</p><p>“Jury’s still out on that one,” a tall man with straw blonde hair nearly down to his waist remarked, “I’m pretty sure I saw an APB out for a woman with a spider web hair-do.” He extended a hand out to Martin, “Michael Shelley. Pleasure.”</p><p>“Martin Blackwood,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand. He was wearing a pea coat and an argyle sweater. He was dressed not unlike Martin himself, “You look a little out of place here.”</p><p>Michael laughed, lilting and almost musical, “Hi, pot. Kettle,” he said, gesturing to each of them in turn, “My husband is a fighter for the Fears and he’s on the roster for tonight. I never miss one of the nights where he fights. Other nights I couldn’t care less about. That’s why you missed me last week.”</p><p>Martin turned to Annabelle again, his face one of disbelief, “Seriously, I know I asked you this last week, but is everyone here on the LGBT spectrum?”</p><p>Annabelle shrugged, “Almost, I think. You won’t really see any measuring contests here. Well, besides between the Watcher and Lukas. The only person I can think of that might not have been was Fairchild.”</p><p>Michael perked up at the name of the Avatar fighter, “Have they found him yet, do you know?”</p><p>Annabelle shook her head, “Not from what I’ve seen. They think he got into some shady business for Lukas’ benefit and had a hit taken out on him. If that’s the case, I don’t think they’ll ever find him. Quite like all the others that both worked and fought for Lukas.”</p><p>Martin reeled, shaking his head, “Hold on, you mean this isn’t a random occurrence?”</p><p>“No, not really. It’s known that the Lukas family gets up to some shady dealings, and everyone who works for them is expendable. Avatar fighters like Arthur Nolan and Maxwell Rayner worked for the Lukases and they’ve never been able to figure out what happened to them. They went missing about five years ago.”</p><p>“I didn’t think there was any mafia in Britain anymore,” Martin said, genuinely disturbed.</p><p>“Nobody can say what it is for sure,” Michael said, “It’s just a fact here that several people who work for the Lukas family go missing.”</p><p>“And no one says anything?” </p><p>“What can we say?” Annabelle asked, “What, you expect us to walk into Scotland Yard and say ‘Hello, I’ve been following an underground illegal fighting ring and I would like to report one of the fighters missing’? That’s a surefire way to make all of us disappear.”</p><p>“Most fighters here are societal rejects anyway. People that no one would look for, much less miss.”</p><p>An image of Jon’s face popped into Martin’s mind unbidden. It was horrible to think that he had no one. But for all Martin knew, he could have a family out there that wants nothing to do with him. Or no family at all. </p><p><i>I would miss him</i>, he thought. <i>I would look for him, even if it was a lost cause.</i> </p><p>He felt another sharp elbow go into his ribs, and he looked down at Annabelle, “He’s the pet project, he would never go missing.”</p><p>“Who?” Michael asked before Martin could defend himself.</p><p>“Oh Martin here fancies himself in love with the Archivist.”</p><p>“I do not, Annabelle!” Martin retorted, “I just… find him intriguing, is all.”</p><p>“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much,” she said, smirking and kicking her foot over the dirt.</p><p>Michael tilted his head and considered Martin for a moment. Then something seemed to dawn on him as he straighted up, “Oh, so it’s you.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Gerry had been saying that Jon seemed distracted all week after the first night of the tournament, that his eyes kept wandering somewhere in the Hippodrome during practices. You were sitting with Annabelle last week in the drop, weren’t you?” Martin nodded, “It’s not just you that’s intrigued. I think the Archivist has his eye on you as well.”</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“I would advise you to rethink the words you just said to me, Archivist. I made you who you are at this moment, Jonathan Sims, and I could unmake you faster than you can blink. And that man out there? The one that has so distracted you? You know exactly what I could do to him.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Don’t you dare,” Jon said through the constriction around his throat. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Then I suggest you fall back into line, Archivist. You have a job to do. You wouldn’t want to go back to the man you were before, would you?”</i>
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          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was barely a sound as Elias crossed the lighting loft to sit next to Jon. It didn’t surprise him anymore, the silence of the man. He had learned to expect it after the last five years. The silence, the menace, all of it. No one else seemed to see it. He was just a charismatic academic who fell from grace and found a new niche. Nothing more than that. Never anything more than that. </p><p>Elias sat on the corner of the chair, knees spread wide, hands hanging loose in between them. Jon didn’t fully turn to look at him, just glanced and looked out back over the filling Hippodrome. “Agnes,” he said simply, finality permeating his tone, “I have her set to fight Gerry, so it shouldn’t take you too long to take care of her.”</p><p>Jon nodded slightly, dread and nausea bubbling up in his stomach. It had been almost five years to the day since he archived Arthur Nolan, so it was only fitting to take out his protege. Everyone on the Avatar team would know as soon as her name was written on the board later that night that that was exactly Elias’ intent.</p><p>“And no fooling around just because it’s Agnes. I want it quick.”</p><p>“The fight or the kill?” Jon said despite himself, eyes training on Agnes as she sparred with Jude on the stage. Her hair was down, cascading in bright burning ringlets along her back. She moved easily with her partner, never actually hitting her. He watched the ease of her movements, not unlike how she really fought, and played out how this night would go. Gerry would do a number on her. It wouldn’t be a hard fight.</p><p>Elias laughed beside him, “After five years, you’re finally asking the right questions. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m not quite sure what I want to do with her yet.”</p><p>That sent a chill up Jon’s spine. Elias almost always had a plan. The only time he didn’t was when he was thinking up new way to not get caught. Ways that always left Jon’s skin crawling.</p><p>The chill was short lived as another familiar form entered the Hippodrome. The new man from the week before. He was with Annabelle and Michael, moving closer to the ring than he had the week before. He didn’t look as nervous. He just looked… frustrated. Jon couldn’t help himself from wanting to know why, and he sat forward just a bit, and if being just an inch closer could bring him insight. </p><p>Elias followed his gaze and Jon didn’t have to look to see the face he was making, “Oh, so it’s him that’s had you distracted? Honestly, Jonathan, out of all the people here, that’s the one you go in for?”</p><p>Jon didn’t reply, just continued looking at the man as he laughed at something Annabelle said. From this height and the drone of the crowd, Jon couldn’t make out the sound of it, but he wanted to. He wanted something, anything, to latch onto that wasn’t the man beside him or the constant itch under his skin.</p><p>“Well go on then,” Elias said, “Go talk to him.”</p><p>Jon whipped his head around in shock, “You’re not serious.”</p><p>“Of course I am,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, “You know what needs to be done tonight. You’ve earned it.”</p><p>Jon cocked and eyebrow in confusion, but slowly stood up. As he crossed in front of Elias to leave the loft, a strong hand reached out to grab his wrist, the grip ironclad, “Oh, but before I forget,” Elias started, tone nonchalant, “Don’t tell him anything. Don’t even try. You know what happened to the last one.”</p><p>Images flashed behind Jon’s eyes. Georgie. Bright and smiling. Georgie with hair whipping across her face from the wind off the Thames, the London Eye a spectacle behind her. Georgie in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down. Georgie in a wheelchair, staring at Jon with no expression. Just Georgie.</p><p>He swallowed down the hurt and threw his hair back over his shoulder. She was better now, he knew. She had been friends with Melanie while they were together, and Melanie’s ignorance to it all was comfort after the hurt Jon had inadvertently caused by tell her what archiving really was. She still came around, just to keep an eye on him, but they never really talked after that. </p><p>Jon wasn’t going to let that happen again.</p><p>Elias smiled, “Good. Now off you go.”</p><p>So he went. Down the stairs and out the tech door. The crowd practically began to enclose on him, whispers of his name, both real and fighting, awe in so many voices. They were still singing his praises from the week before, some even from the month before. But then it parted, letting him make his way toward the man and his new ragtag group of acquaintances. He smiled at Jon when their eyes met and they stepped closer. Jon did the same, turning on a false confident charm.</p><p>“Hello,” he said, extending a hand for the man to shake, “Welcome to the Hippodrome. Apologies for not being able to welcome you last week. We were quite busy getting the tournament ready. I’m Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”</p><p>The man stood in silence, just holding Jon’s extended hand. He took a moment to revel in it, until one of Annabelle’s elbows almost cracking the man’s ribs stimulated him into speaking, “M-Ma-Martin. Martin Blackwood.”</p><p>Jon huffed out a laugh despite himself, “A pleasure to meet you, Martin.” </p><p>Their hands stayed clasped for a moment longer, feeling as if it would stretch out into eternity, before they both let go. Their eyes never left each others. </p><p>“Alright you two, enough flirting,” Annabelle said, stepping into Jon’s line of vision, “So, Archivist, spill. Who’s on the roster for your fight tonight?”</p><p>“Flirting? Where on earth did she get that from?” he said to Martin, hoping to ease the nerves he could see.</p><p>Martin immediately relaxed and laughed. <i>Oh hell</i>, Jon thought. <i>I would sell my soul to the actual devil for this man.</i> </p><p>“I have no idea,” he replied when his laughter died down, “She’s been going on about it since last week.”</p><p>“You two can talk about all that later,” Annabelle said, commanding attention, “Back to my question.”</p><p>“Annabelle, you know I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise. Always has been and always will be.”</p><p>She crossed her arms and tapped her combat booted foot in annoyance, “You’d think after five years you’d let me in on how that works.”</p><p>“Not going to happen, Annabelle. You have to wait just like everyone else.”</p><p>Jon could feel Elias’ eyes boring into him from the loft. He kept himself from turning to look at him, focusing instead on Martin. He was also looking intently at Jon, as if he was trying to solve a puzzle. He watched as Martin’s eyes moved to glare at Elias in the lighting loft, not seeming to know or even care what the man in the loft was all about. Jon could admire him for his guts, but not his stupidity. </p><p>They were all interrupted from their musings as Tim rolled out the board for the fights that night.</p><p>
  <i>Deathstrand vs The Detonator |  25-1<br/>The Messiah vs The Eye  | 10-1<br/>           vs The Archivist  | 100-1</i>
</p><p>Jon stared at the empty spot next to his name, already picturing Agnes’s being written beside it. He hated archiving women. He hated even more to have to do it to Agnes. She meant a lot to so many people, especially Jude. Jon didn’t want to know what was going to come their way when Jude finds out that Agnes is missing.</p><p>Michael turned to Jon with a cocked eyebrow, “Gerry’s fighting Agnes? You guys normally don’t do mixed fights.”</p><p>Jon didn’t take his eyes away from the board as he said, “The Watcher is pulling out all the stops for this tournament, it seems.”</p><p>“Jon, are you alright?” Martin asked, almost looking as if he wanted to reach out and reassure him. Jon nodded before making his excuses and retreating to his locker room. He could feel both Martin and Elias’ eyes following him all the way there. </p><p>When the door shut behind him, he looked up in the dingy vanity mirror. He felt the onset of panic as he took in his bruised purple eye bags, the scars from years and years of fighting. He could feel something else billowing out of him, something he hadn’t been able to name in years, but before he could fully acknowledge it, the door opened behind him and Elias stepped in. </p><p>“Leaving his company so soon?” he asked, letting the door swing shut behind, “I thought you liked him. What’s his name then?”</p><p>Jon stayed silent, looking across at the other man in what he hoped was defiance, but he knew he looked more like a scared animal than anything else. </p><p>“Fine, you don’t have to tell me. Though you are going to go back out there and watch your team fight their way to victory, right? Tim is quite elated that he gets his rematch with Oliver tonight.”</p><p>“I’m not interested in your bloodbath tonight, Elias. I don’t want this anymore!” He felt the rage boil over in him in a way that it hadn’t since this all started. He’d never taken it out on Elias, only every bringing the fury and futility of this situation to the ring. But here, in this minuscule dressing room, Jon balled up his fist and swung at Elias Bouchard. </p><p>The Watcher caught it easily, using Jon’s momentum to pull him and pin him to the wall by his wrist and his throat, “I would advise you to rethink the words you just said to me, Archivist. I made you who you are at this moment, Jonathan Sims, and I could unmake you faster than you can blink. And that man out there? The one that has so distracted you? You know exactly what I could do to him.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare,” Jon said through the constriction around his throat. </p><p>“Then I suggest you fall back into line, Archivist. You have a job to do. You wouldn’t want to go back to the man you were before, would you?” When Jon didn’t answer, the hands holding him hostage tightened, “Answer me.”</p><p>“No, Elias,” he said through gritted teeth. </p><p>“Good,” the Watcher replied, letting go of Jon’s wrist and moving his other hand to grip Jon’s chin, “I let you have freedom, Archivist, and I will let you do as you see fit when it come to that man out there, but don’t think I won’t tell him all that I know about you if you step one hair out of line again. You know the rule without outsiders. Don’t make me regret this.”</p><p>“Yes, Elias.”</p><p>The Watcher left the room again, leaving Jon to his preparations. He stared at the boxing tape on the vanity, reluctantly picking it up and peeling up the edge. He didn’t want to wrap his knuckles. He didn’t want to go back out there and face Martin again, and he certainly didn’t want to sit in the loft with Elias and watch the fights. But he knew he had to. So he wrapped his knuckles, and trekked out to the tech stairs.</p><p>Elias wasn’t there when he reached the loft, and Jon waited with bated breath for the door to open behind him. Instead, he saw Elias walk out on the stage, once again in his full Watcher regalia. The sight of the crown on top of his head made Jon’s throat tighten, knowing that someday soon, whether he liked it or not, that crown would be placed on his head. </p><p>He shook the feeling off as Elias started his spiel, and noticed there was only one person that wasn’t fully transfixed on the vision of Elias. Martin. He was looking at Jon, his face turned up, more open than it had been when they were face to face. There was something that unsettled Jon about it, knowing that the man below knew nothing about this place, about what Jon has done and seen.  </p><p>Elias’ arms were stretched out to their full wingspan as he introduced Oliver and Tim. Jon could see the nervous yet determined energy flowing out of Tim as he bounced from foot to foot, shaking his wrapped hands out at his sides. Oliver was in the same state, pulling his head from side to side to loosen up his neck. It had been about a month since the two of them last fought. Tim had been in hospital for a few days, and it was certainly difficult to explain what exactly had happened. But after healing and training back up, Jon could tell that Tim was determined. </p><p>The two men launched at each other when Elias dropped his hands. Tim was strategic in his foot placement, taking in his and Sasha’s advice from the last few weeks. His feet were stable as dodged under Oliver’s first swing, taking the open stance as an opportunity to strike at his kidneys. Jon smiled despite himself, watching as Tim continued his onslaught. It was looking good, until Oliver got one really good punch to Tim’s cheekbone.</p><p>Jon stood as Tim’s head snapped back, watching in what felt like slow motion as he raised it back up, determination spreading across his face. Oliver’s hands were down at his sides, thinking that one good fist to the face would stop Tim. He was too slow to block Tim’s swing, a deafening crack ringing out through the theatre as he mirrored Oliver’s punch. He put a hand to it and stared at Tim before raising his hand and motioning toward the outside of the ring. Elias raised his hand toward Tim, declaring him the winner. </p><p>Jon sat down, letting out a sigh of relief that Tim won. They couldn’t afford to have him down for the count again. Then again, maybe it would save time pain as far as the tournament was concerned. He hadn’t made a decision as to what he was going to do after he archived everyone on the Avatar team. He didn’t want to think about it. It would take few weeks more to get through the rest of the team, but the thought of archiving his own teammates? It made him sick to his stomach, but fighting Elias? That wasn’t on the table either. It was like biting the hand that feeds him.</p><p>In his reverie, Jon missed the first minute or so of Gerry and Agnes’s fight. There was already a blossoming red patch on Agnes’s cheek, and Gerry looked virtually untouched. He had that slight smirk on his face, like he knew something the others around him didn’t, and he moved like he was born to fight. </p><p>Michael stood at the edge of the ring, almost on his tiptoes, Annabelle looking like she was thinking of holding him back. He always got nervous at Gerry’s fights, but was supportive nonetheless. Martin was next to the two of them, watching intently, though he could see that there was apprehension when it came to the mixed fight. It was true that they didn’t do it often, not even in Archive fights, but this was different. There was something else at play here that Jon wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know. </p><p>The fight continued, Agnes turning into a blur of red, mixing and blending with the black of Gerry’s outfit and hair. Then all of a sudden, the motion stopped, and Agnes hit the floor, red curls cascading over her face. Gerry stood above her, hands still raised in defense, waiting for her to get up. Instead, she looks to Elias, raises her hand, and slaps the ground twice. Elias stepped forward, a smile on his half shrouded face. He lifted Gerry’s hand into the air, cheering and jeering flowing from the crowd. </p><p>As he dropped Gerry’s hand, Elias inclined his head up to Jon, his smile taking on that sinister air it always seemed to have in Jon’s presence. Then he stepped out of the ring and walked up to the board, adjusting the last fight. With a brief glance over his shoulder at Agnes, still on the ground, he moves away, showing the updated board to the crowd.</p><p>
  <i>The Messiah vs. The Archivist | 175-1</i>
</p><p>Jon inhaled sharply. Agnes, from her spot on the floor, collapsed even further into it. Jude Perry shouted. The crowd seemed to whistle collectively. </p><p>Martin’s eyes met Jon’s from below. There was something in his eyes. Something Jon saw in the mirror almost every day. <i>Fear.</i></p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Their eyes met for a moment, over the Watcher helping Agnes to her feet. Jon followed their movement as the Watcher ushered Agnes away, and didn’t look back at Martin. Instead, he followed behind his sponsor and the still wheezing Avatar. Martin followed too. No one stopped him.</i>
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    <p>Martin whirled around after looking at Jon, almost coming nose to nose with Annabelle, “They can’t do that!” he shouted, “She just fought!”</p><p>Annabelle looked just as stunned as Martin felt, her jaw hanging open slightly as she looked into the ring at Agnes, “Unfortunately, Martin, this is how this works. The Watcher, and the Sailor, if he ever decided to show up, can do whatever they want. You remember what the Watcher said last week. The Archive fight could either be from a fight that night, or selected at random. But this wasn’t random.”</p><p>She kept staring at Agnes, and Martin kept fuming, “Mind telling me what the hell that means?”</p><p>“I told you that Agnes was Arthur Nolan’s pet project, right?” Martin nodded, “Well, Nolan was one of the first to be Archived, almost five years ago. This isn’t random. It’s a reminder.”</p><p>“Nolan is still missing, then?” Martin asked, looking to both Annabelle and Michael. Michael was the one that answered his question.</p><p>“Not quite. Nolan’s body washed up on the shore of the Thames two years ago. They barely had anything to go on. They tried to blame it on Lukas, but nothing stuck because there was virtually no evidence on the body after three years in the river,” Martin let the story sink in for a moment, “That’s what I meant when I said they were never able to figure out what happened to him. Three years getting bashed on river rocks, no one could tell what killed him.”</p><p>“There had to be something!” Martin yelled, remembering some things that Mariah’s old flatmate had said, “Some things are indicative of premortem injuries.”</p><p>“I don’t know, mate,” Michael shrugged, “I’m not a doctor, and I just know what Gerry told me about it.”</p><p>Martin let all the information settle over him, looking back to the board. The match up for the Archive fight stared back at him, drilling into his mind. He looked back over his shoulder after what felt like an eternity, hoping to find Jon still sitting in the loft. He wasn’t there anymore. Instead, when Martin turned back around, he was standing on the other side of the ring, waiting for instructions from the Watcher. </p><p>Agnes hauled herself to her feet, split lip glistening red, eyes shining in defiance, “Couldn’t give a woman a moment to breathe, could you? Or are you just doing what the puppet master says?”</p><p>Jon smirked, looking almost haughty, “Come on now, Agnes, how many times have taunts like that worked for you?”</p><p>“Not many, but for you it’s true, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Alright, Messiah, enough,” the Watcher said, raising a hand to silence her, “Are you ready, or are you going to taunt my Archivist some more?”</p><p>“Oh, Watcher, you know I’m good at multitasking. Let’s get this over with.”</p><p>As the Watcher’s hand dropped on the last fight, every hair on Martin’s body stood on end. He felt like Michael, wanting to launch himself into the ring, but he had no right. So he stood still and watched as a bloodied Agnes and a nearly pristine Jon circled each other. That’s when he noticed the beginnings of a bruise on Jon’s neck. One that he could have sworn wasn’t there earlier. </p><p>Agnes attacked first, as it always seemed to go with Archive fights. Jon dodged her without much effort, watching as she stumbled slightly. He didn’t use it to his advantage, like so many other fighters would have, but just waited for her to right herself. Agnes just looked angry as she spun on him again, eyes full of fire, mouth a step away from spitting brimstone. </p><p>“After everything you’ve done, Archivist, you’d think you wouldn’t be afraid to hit a woman,” she said, her back to Martin as they circled the ring again. </p><p>“Taunt me again, Agnes, and I won’t hold back.” </p><p>He showed the Messiah that he meant it by lunging forward, delivering two quick jabs to her stomach. Agnes doubled over and coughed, clutching her stomach. Jon just stood there again, waiting. This fight was different than the one with Simon Fairchild. There wasn’t much desperation in that fight, but Jon definitely fought. It wasn’t like this, with him just waiting on his opponent.</p><p>“I said quickly, Jonathan,” The Watcher said, his shrouded expression directed firmly at Jon. He hadn’t said a word during the other fights, and everyone around the ring turned to look at him. His voice was different, not the somewhat upbeat but still menacing timbre of the Watcher persona, but lower, gruffer, more authoritative. It made Martin’s skin crawl. </p><p>Jon looked to the Watcher for a brief moment before flitting back to Agnes. There was a flash of something in his eyes that Martin couldn’t quite place. Was it regret? Genuine pain? He couldn’t tell. It was gone in an instant. And before Agnes had the chance to fully straighten her back, Jon was on her, his fist connecting with her throat. This felled Agnes again, causing her to curl tightly on the floor as she tried to regain her breath. With two light taps on the floor from the Messiah, the fight was called. Jon was announced the winner, but just like the week before, there was no pride there. He looked exhausted, cringing away from the Watcher when he released him.</p><p>Their eyes met for a moment, over the Watcher helping Agnes to her feet. Jon followed their movement as the Watcher ushered Agnes away, and didn’t look back at Martin. Instead, he followed behind his sponsor and the still wheezing Avatar. Martin followed too. No one stopped him.</p><p>“Jon, wait,” he called, speeding up to a brief jog. The Archivist paused, turning his body towards him, but his were cast down, “I wanted to… congratulate you.”</p><p>Jon looked up when Martin’s voice halted, “No, you didn’t.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t, you’re right,” Martin conceded, “Jon, are you alright?”</p><p>“I’m fine, Martin. It’s just been a long night. A long week, really. And you don’t even know me. Why do you care?”</p><p>“I… I don’t know. I just do.”</p><p>“Jon!” the Watcher called, motioning for Jon to follow him. He turned to, without saying anything more to Martin. </p><p>He reached out, placing a hand gently on Jon’s shoulder. Jon turned back to him, eyes certainly filled with regret, “Martin, I have to go help the Watcher with Agnes. I… I’ll see you next week, yes?”</p><p>Martin nodded dumbly, watching as the other man nodded once and turned on his heels again. He watched him go, arms hanging limp at his sides. He didn’t know for sure, but Martin could’ve swore that Jon had flinched away from that brief touch. Every nerve ending in him screamed to <i>follow him, follow him, follow him,</i> but he just stood stock still. Something was wrong. Martin was sure of it.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Jon sucked in a sharp breath. The conviction in the other man’s voice crawled over his skin, chilling him to the bone. His guilt by association wouldn’t be enough for Elias. It would never be enough.</i>
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    <p>“You want to explain to me what that was?” Elias asked when Jon caught up with him at the side door, the one no one knew existed, “Is now <i>really</i> the best time to have a conversation with your new… boytoy?”</p><p>“Don’t talk about him like that!” Jon snapped, making Elias’s head snap up from where he was loading Agnes into the backseat. He stared at Jon for a long moment, letting Agnes’s now unconscious body slump over onto the seats. </p><p>“Get in the car,” Elias said, pointing to the passenger side door. </p><p>Jon, in a substandard attempt at defiance, lifted his chin and simply said, “No.”</p><p>“Jonathan Sims, you will get in this car right now before we have a <i>very</i> angry Jude Perry out here that <i>insists</i> she rides along with her wife to the hospital. Get. In.”</p><p>Jon didn’t move. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at Elias. The other man slammed the car door before marching up to Jon, grabbing his mussed ponytail and yanking. Jon tried his best to keep his composure, even as a yelp crawled its way up his throat. </p><p>Elias leaned in close, boxing Jon in against the passenger door, breath hot on the side of his neck, “I’ve let you carry on long enough tonight. Get. In. The car.” With a final wrench of Jon’s hair, Elias released him and rounded the front of the car. He sat in the driver’s seat, leaning over to open the door behind Jon’s back, pushing him forward.</p><p>Jon got in the car. He folded his hands in his lap and didn’t look over at Elias as they pulled away from the theatre. That didn’t stop Elias from speaking, though Jon wished it had.</p><p>“You’re taking care of her tonight. No more rebellion. If you want that man back at the theatre alive and unharmed, you’ll do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”</p><p>Jon stayed silent, looking out the windshield.</p><p>Elias reached over and grasped Jon’s chin, pulling his head to face him, “Do. You. Understand?”</p><p>“Yes, Elias,” Jon answered quietly. Elias’ grip tightened for just a moment before he pushed Jon’s face away. Silence descended on the car, punctured only by the breathing of the occupants. </p><p>*</p><p>Jon focused back into the journey as they passed several signs for Blackley Forest. He sat up straighter as Elias pulled off Victoria Avenue, toward a place Jon didn’t even know existed. Blackley Cemetery and Crematorium. “Elias, no.”</p><p>“What did I say as we left the theatre? Do as I say. I would hate for you to make the wrong choice and have something happen to your boytoy,” Elias said as he threw the car in park. Agnes stirred in the back, slowly rising from unconsciousness.</p><p>Elias, with pistol in hand, reached around the driver’s seat and hit her back into unconsciousness. He adjusted his shirt when he turned back around, “Didn’t want her whining. Now. Get her out.”</p><p>“Elias—”</p><p>“The next words out of your mouth better be ‘yes, Elias’ or I will not hesitate to turn that man into a cement slab, do you understand me?”</p><p>“Yes, Elias,” Jon said, opening the passenger door and exiting the car. He took a deep breath and opened the door to the backseat. Though Agnes was built, she didn’t weigh overly much. Jon hefted her out of the car and waited for more directions from Elias.</p><p>The other man stepped out of the car and faced Jon, “There’s a pond this way. Come.”</p><p>Jon followed after him, keeping an eye on Agnes, making sure she didn’t wake. Once they reached the pond, Jon placed her on the ground, still waiting. He had seen Elias do this a dozen times, but he had never been a part of the decision making process, no matter how much Elias had wanted that. </p><p>Jon watched as Elias attached the silencer to Peter’s Browning before handing it over, “On you go.”</p><p>Jon stared at the gun in his hand, the weight of the cold metal on his fingers. There was an inscription on the side, <i>Cpt. P. Lukas</i>, and as he looked at it, thumb resolutely off the trigger, his anger bubbled over and over again. Jon flexed his hand, the metal making that tell-tale sound that he thought couldn’t possibly be real. He turned to Elias, wanting so badly to level his arm to Elias’ chest and just pull the trigger.</p><p>“Does Peter know the things you do before you come home?” </p><p>“Why would he? He’s barely home as it is, and is too busy fielding questions about the Lukas Foundation when he is.” </p><p>“What would he say if I told him?” Jon asked, hand flexing on the gun once again.</p><p>Elias laughed, “He’s my husband, Jonathan. You’re a street rat I picked up. Why would he believe you?” His voice was firm, but there was something in his eyes that made Jon suspicious.</p><p>“Is that why you never let me talk to him? Because he would believe me, wouldn’t he? He has to be suspicious of someone.”</p><p>“Enough. Finish this. Now.”</p><p>Jon let himself smirk before turning back to Agnes. She was still on the damp ground, red curls spread behind her, stark against the grass. He hesitated again, letting his finger rest on the trigger. He heard Elias walk up behind him, and in a herculean effort, didn’t flinch as one of his hands was placed on his shoulder and the other wrapped around his waist, “Pull the trigger, Jon. Or the only person that Peter will ever be suspicious of is you.”</p><p>Jon sucked in a sharp breath. The conviction in the other man’s voice crawled over his skin, chilling him to the bone. His guilt by association wouldn’t be enough for Elias. It would never be enough. He didn’t want to be that person anymore. The one who was never enough for anyone. He pulled the trigger.</p><p>*</p><p>Jon didn’t hear a word Elias said to him as they disposed of Agnes in the pond. He didn’t hear a thing as they drove back to London, back to the Bouchard mansion. There was a car parked in the driveway. Expensive, nearly spotless. Jon’s stomach dropped. Captain Peter Lukas was home.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>"Martin, have you ever heard of a man named Maxwell Rayner?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Martin’s stomach dropped to his feet.</i>
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    <p>Martin sat uncomfortably in his seat on the train, hands folded tightly in his lap. His mind felt overwhelmed, still hanging on tightly to the last conversation he had with Jon that night. The flinching away from his hand, the regret in his eyes. If he wasn’t entirely convinced that there was something wrong with this entire operation, he was now. It was enough to set anyone on edge.</p><p>He wanted so desperately to talk to Mariah about what was happening, but after she had told him that NSY suspected that Simon Fairchild was dead, he wasn’t so sure that was the best idea. He settled for texting her and asking about his mother.</p><p><i>She behaved. Did you get into any trouble?</i> She replied.</p><p><i>You know me, always a magnet for danger and trouble.</i> He waited for a moment before adding. <i>I spoke to him.</i></p><p>
  <i>Too important for text. Save it for our day off tomorrow? </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Depends on Mother. If I get an apology, I most likely won’t be over. I’ll have to make amends. But if not? All avoidance.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She wasn’t too happy beyond her cooperation. I wouldn’t hold your breath. See you in the morning.</i>
</p><p>Martin sighed, grip on his phone tightening slightly, <i>See you in the morning, then.</i></p><p>He leaned his head back against the seat, letting the movement of the train lull his overactive brain for the rest of the ride.</p><p>*</p><p>After a short cab right back to his building, Martin was ready to fall asleep on his feet. The doorman smiled wryly at him and titled his head to the elevator. An Out of Order sign was plastered across the doors once again. He groaned, letting his head roll back, “I might as well curl up on a couch down here. I’d get better sleep anyway,” he said, somewhat laughing.</p><p>“You’ll make it. You always do. Have a good night, Mr. Blackwood.”</p><p>Martin smiled and nodded before making his way to the door of the stairwell. He trudged his way up the six floors and stopped in front of 617. He dreaded opening this door and trying to sleep in the room next to his no doubt irate mother. He dreaded waking up in the morning to hostility and defiance. He dreaded waiting for an apology that would never come. He opened the door. </p><p>When he sat his key on the table inside the door, he saw the few pamphlets for nursing homes that the doctor had given him at their last visit. He picked one off the stack, Ivy Meadows Care Home, and resolved to call them in the morning. It was time to finally move forward with getting on with his life. </p><p>*</p><p>Morning came with a vengeance, gray light spewing in through the gaps in the curtain, falling directly over Martin’s eyes. He groaned, once again considering purchasing blackout curtains for his weekends. Not that he would ever have a true lie in, considering the movement and raving coming from the room  next to him.</p><p>“Martin, are you awake?”</p><p>“Coming, Mother,” he said, groaning and rolling out of his bed, feet wobbly on the ground. He grabbed his phone from his nightstand, preparing to call accident and emergency if necessary. His head pounded from lack of sleep, and his heart pounded from anxiety of how this morning was going to go. Luckily, when he got to his mother’s door, she was still in bed, petulant as ever.</p><p>“It took you long enough to wake up this morning, boy. Don’t you think you should be more responsible and take care of your sick mother?”</p><p>Martin didn’t answer her, just set to work getting her morning medication ready. Once she took all of them with little to no complaint, she helped her into her chair and maneuvered her out into the sitting room. The silence was deafening as he cooked breakfast, the only sound the pop of the eggs in the pan. He served Mother a plate and then held two more in his hands.</p><p>“I’m going over to Mariah’s. Call if you need anything.”</p><p>“I won’t need anything from you. Go. It seems to be your solution for everything these last few weeks. Just like your father. You always have been.”</p><p>Martin took a breath to steady his voice before speaking again, “Do not compare me to him. If I were like him, I would been gone years ago. Eat your breakfast. I’ll be back to make lunch.”</p><p>The oppressive air lifted as soon as he exited the flat, weight momentarily vacating his shoulders. He knocked on Mariah’s door, and no sooner had he finished, it opened. </p><p>“Oh, thank god, you brought breakfast. You’re the love of my life,” she said as she pulled him in.</p><p>Martin laughed, “Platonic, I hope.”</p><p>“Oh always. Now, come in and tell me all about the lovely piece of man you finally talked to last night.”</p><p>“You’re incorrigible. Let me at least eat my breakfast first,” he said, taking a bite and moving to sit down on the couch, “And I have to take care of something before I tell you about last night.”</p><p>Mariah sat her plate down and titled her head, scrutinizing him. Then she sat back on her heels, face looking somber, “You’re going to call a home aren’t you?”</p><p>Martin nodded, sitting his own plate on his lap, “I feel like there’s nothing else I can do. She’s so spiteful these days. She said I’m just like him before I came over. I’ve been doing this since I was seventeen, I’ve sacrificed so much to take care of her, but I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”</p><p>“It makes sense. Over a decade of thankless work would be exhausting for anyone. You’re a saint for taking care of her for as long as you have. It’s time to give yourself a break, spend some time on your own life.”</p><p>“I’m just not quite sure I’m ready for the fallout that’s going to come.”</p><p>They sat in silence to finish their breakfast, and when they were both done, Martin steeled his resolve and called Ivy Meadows.</p><p>“Thank you for calling Ivy Meadows Care Home, my name is Jane, how may I assist you?” the woman’s voice on the other end of the line was cheery and bright, trained to put families at ease, no doubt.</p><p>“Good morning, I’m calling to inquire about your intake process and what it’s like?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, first we would need a recommendation from the patient’s doctor. I’m assuming you’re not the patient, correct?”</p><p>“Correct. I’m calling on behalf of my mother, I’m her lasting power of attorney.”</p><p>“Alright, no problem. Can I have your mother’s name and the name of her general physician, please?” Jane asked, her question accompanied by the rustling of clothes.</p><p>“Yes, it’s Sylvia Blackwood, and her GP is Doctor David Monroe.”</p><p>“Oh, Dr. David!” Jane almost crooned, “He’s a fantastic doctor. We’ve worked very closely with him on several occasions. And it looks like… Yep, it looks like Dr. David sent over a recommendation for your mother yesterday morning! There is also a note here that says Sylvia may be somewhat unwilling upon intake. Is that accurate?”</p><p>Martin looked over at Mariah who smiled at him, a reassuring presence as always, “It is. She was slightly confrontational about it when he mentioned it at our last appointment.”</p><p>“She has quite the laundry list here. Ehlers-Danlos, arrhythmia, high blood pressure, et cetera, et cetera?”</p><p>“Yes. I’m sure he put in there she also still has a port from chemotherapy? Her oncologist has been certain since her first diagnosis that she’s prone to relapse.”</p><p>“Indeed he did. We are well equipped to deal with that should it come to pass. Are you aware of Dr. David sending out a recommendation to any other facilities?” </p><p>Martin shook his head on reflex, “I’m not sure. I haven’t had the time to speak to him today. I had a late night last night.”</p><p>“Alright, Mr. Blackwood. I would recommend you give him a call sometime today and let him know that you got in contact with us and we can hopefully get the ball rolling on your mother’s intake, Is there anything else I can do for you on this fine, rainy, London day?”</p><p>Martin chuckled lightly, “No, thank you, Jane. You’ve been a great help. I’ll be sure to get in touch again once I speak to Dr. David, and hopefully my mother as well.”</p><p>“We’ll look forward to it. You have a great day!”</p><p>“You as well, Jane,” he said, hanging up, “Well, that was relatively painless. Her GP already got in touch with the one I looked into.”</p><p>“That’s great!” Mariah cheered, clapping her hands together, “If you need me to butter her up to the idea, I’m more than willing.”</p><p>He shook his head, “You’ve been a great help as is. I’ll do what I can when it comes to convincing her.”</p><p>Mariah nodded and then smiled, leaning forward to place her chin on her hands, “Now. Time to tell me all about the romantic exploits of last evening.”</p><p>Martin groaned, “I wouldn’t exactly call it romantic. I stuttered when I introduced myself to him. He probably thinks my name is M-Ma-Martin.” He leaned back against the back of the couch, pushing his glasses up and covering his eyes, “And I hate to be like this but he’s so gorgeous up close.”</p><p>“You got it bad, Mr. Blackwood. And I’m sure he doesn’t think your name is M-Ma-Martin. Maybe just M-Martin.”</p><p>“You’re not helping.”</p><p>“I’m not trying to.”</p><p>Martin took another deep breath, “And I talked to him after he won his fight. He and the sponsor of the team were taking the woman he fought to the hospital, I think, but there was something about the way he looked at me when he turned to leave. I have a bad feeling about his position on that team. And I intend to figure it out.”</p><p>“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Martin? You don’t have to be everyone’s savior.” The look on Mariah’s face was genuine, concern radiating between them. </p><p>“The Watcher has such a pull over him. Like he’s holding information over his head, blackmail of some kind.”</p><p>Before Mariah could respond, her phone rang on the table, “Oh, hang on, it’s Emily. Hello, you gorgeous forensic consultant. What can I do for you on this marvelous day?” There was a pause as Emily responded, “No way. Should you be telling me this? Alright, Em just… take it easy, okay? Focus on the tedious bits, I’m sure you’ll be alright. Call me if you need anything else, yeah? Alright, love you too.”</p><p>“What was that about?” Martin asked, leaning forward.</p><p>“She’s consulting for organized crime now. She’s going on her first case today. Martin, have you ever heard of a man named Maxwell Rayner?”</p><p>Martin’s stomach dropped to his feet.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <i>Jon stared at Elias, taking him in. It would be a fair fight between them, he knew, and it would be, when it came to that. But here in this moment, with another person besides staff in the house, it wouldn’t be appropriate. And the newfound vigor that Jon had to no longer be afraid of this man surprised him. Never in these last five years had he ever spoken to Elias the way he had over the last week or so. He’d always been weak, submissive to the man who held his secrets, but with Peter home, Elias would be more subdued, more cautious. Jon could use that to his advantage.</i>
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  <i>He held his hand out, “Can I have my book back, please?”</i>
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    <p>The breakfast the morning after Peter coming home was tense. He and Elias barely looked at each other, only really looking up from the table to thank the staff as they brought in little bits and bobs to celebrate the other man of the house’s return.</p><p>Jon did his best to be invisible, but that never worked well where Peter Lukas was involved. After tucking in to his omelet like a man starved, Peter turned to him, “So Jon, how has it been keeping Elias’ bed warm while I’ve been away?”</p><p>Jon inhaled sharply, choking on a pepper from his own omelet. Elias let out an almost genuinely shocked, “Peter!” before looking at his husband in complete shock.</p><p>“It’s a fair question, Elias. It’s not like I don’t know what you get up to when I’m at sea. And I’m no stranger to Jon’s… proclivities.”</p><p>Jon sat his fork on his plate and pushed away from the great table, “I’m suddenly not very hungry. I think I’ll go spend some time in the library and leave the two of you to your reunion.” </p><p>“Sit,” Elias barked when he moved to stand. Jon complied, looking down at his hands. “Now Peter, it would do you well to remember that Jon has been doing really well in his rehabilitation. Don’t do or say anything that could possibly set him back.”</p><p>“He’s been on his <i>rehabilitation</i> for almost five years, Elias. I’m quite tired of this stray in our home, especially the one that has been Archiving nearly all of my fighters. You thought you could have an entire tournament without me returning to the Hippodrome?”</p><p>“Of course not!” Elias said, smirking, “I knew exactly what would happen, and you’ve just been away for so long, dear, I simply had to do <i>something</i> to get you to come home.”</p><p>“I wish you hadn’t,” Jon muttered, still looking down at his hands.</p><p>“Jonathan, do be quiet please. I don’t want to have to put you in your place again.”</p><p>“Put him in his place?” Peter scoffed, “When have you ever done that? You let him languish in our home and on the sidelines of your team nearly every day! ‘Put him in his place.’ Don’t make me laugh.”</p><p>Silence descended once again, but Jon could practically feel the anger radiating off the two men. He knew when he came to stay here that their marriage wasn’t perfect, Elias had told him as such after his first few fights, but over the last year or so the hostility had grown and grown. And somehow, Jon was always in the middle of it.</p><p>Some of the kitchen staff came out once again to take care of their plates, and when one of them stopped at Jon’s seat, she let out a quizzical, “Mr. Sims?”</p><p>He looked up and smiled briefly, “I’m finished, Natalie, thank you.”</p><p>Peter scoffed, “You let them call him Mr. Sims? Honestly, Elias, what has this house come to?”</p><p>“Last time I checked, <i>darling</i>, this is my family’s estate, and I have control over the staff. You knew that when we got married. Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason you came home, because I know it wasn’t for my little tournament.”</p><p><i>I wouldn’t call it little</i>, Jon thought, not daring to speak it. </p><p>“So clever, aren’t you? Your tournament certainly wasn’t the only reason, or the most important. I’ve come back for an investigation. Maxwell Rayner has been found.” Peter folded his hands and looked across the table at Elias, a dare in his eyes.</p><p>Jon swallowed, his throat clicking. He tried his best not to react to the news of Maxwell being found and took a sip of water to hide his discomfort, “Is he alright?” he asked, his glass clinking as he placed it back on the table. </p><p>“No, Jonathan,” Peter said, chastising him, “He’s very much dead. Has been for at least the last five years. But you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”</p><p>“Of course not, Mr. Lukas.”</p><p>“Are you sure? I mean, he did disappear right after your Archive fight with him. And he’s the second one of my employees and fighters to have been found dead.”</p><p>“Peter that’s enough,” Elias half yelled, slamming his fist on the table, “You know just as well as I do that Jon had nothing to do with the disappearances of either Maxwell or Arthur.”</p><p>“Or Amherst, or Hezekiah, or Manuela. No, of course not. Not your pet project Jonathan Sims.”</p><p>“You know just as well as I do, Peter, that he’s incapable of what you’re implying. Look at him!”</p><p>Peter did look at him then, taking in all of the bulk he had gained since coming here and fighting for Elias. He felt small under that gaze, hoping against all hope that he could just fold in on himself and disappear.</p><p>“Looks can be deceiving,” Peter said, voice overly calm, “And his have been since the moment he arrived. He certainly has the strength for it, given that he beat all of them in a fight.”</p><p>“I knew their patterns from previous fights, before I was the Archivist. They rarely ever strayed from them.”</p><p>“I’ll just have to train my fighters better now that I’m home. And keep a closer eye on the stray my husband dragged in.”</p><p>Jon smiled tightly, hoping against hope that it looked believable. He then excused himself to the library, wandering though the immaculate marble hallways. He remembered how easy it was to get lost here, and how it took him almost a moth to remember the full layout. </p><p>The library was never hard to find, held behind it’s thick red oak double doors. He took a deep breath as he pulled them open, inhaling the scent of thousands of tombs with old, yellowed pages. In all the years that he had been here, this was the only place he felt at peace in the manor. But it was promptly ruined as Elias marched his way in, ire thick and palpable.</p><p>“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared, pulling the copy of of Kant out of his hands, placing it on the grand research table.</p><p>Jon, renewed in his defiance, said, “I was reading that, for starters.”</p><p>“Don’t get smart with me, Jon. Do you want him to be suspicious of us?”</p><p>“No more than you do, but you certainly have no qualms when it comes to that. Or when it comes to him being suspicious of me, it would seem.”</p><p>Elias groaned, “I only said that to spur you into action last night. I would never actually sell you out to him.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you?” Jon asked, crossing his arms over his chest, “If it would protect you and this sham you call a marriage, you would, and you know it.”</p><p>“You’re overstepping your bounds, Jon. I would suggest you rethink that before you speak again.”</p><p>Jon stared at Elias, taking him in. It would be a fair fight between them, he knew, and it would be, when it came to that. But here in this moment, with another person besides staff in the house, it wouldn’t be appropriate. And the newfound vigor that Jon had to no longer be afraid of this man surprised him. Never in these last five years had he ever spoken to Elias the way he had over the last week or so. He’d always been weak, submissive to the man who held his secrets, but with Peter home, Elias would be more subdued, more cautious. Jon could use that to his advantage.</p><p>He held his hand out, “Can I have my book back, please?”</p><p>Elias scoffed, “Get up and get it yourself. And stay in your place. They aren’t threats when I tell you I’ll turn that man into a cement slab. They’re promises.”</p><p>Jon shot up out of his chair, grabbing Elias by the shoulders and hurling him into the nearest shelf. Though he was shorter than Elias, he used the other man’s stunned confusion to push him down, forearm steady across his throat, “I stood by when you took Georgie from me, but if you touch a single hair on Martin’s head, I swear to you I will tell Peter everything and I will make him believe it.”</p><p>Elias smirked, not so much as a shiver going down his spine, “Martin. So that’s his name. Well, I guess I have no choice but to leave this Martin alone. It would seem you’re so protective of him.” He reached up and shoved Jon away, straightening his dress shirt, “I’ll let you have this one. Enjoy your reading.”</p><p>Elias’ air of confidence returned as he left the room, taking all the oxygen with him. Jon stumbled back to his chair, deflating as he fell into it. With his head in his hands, he let out a long exhale.</p><p>“Shit.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fun Fact: The Hulme Hippodrome is an actual defunct theatre in Manchester that has the exact aesthetic I was looking for when I first started writing. I would suggest checking out some pictures, even though I tried my best to keep true to it in writing.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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